


Mutually Assured Destruction

by The_Librarian



Series: Transformers: This Is How It All Began [3]
Category: Transformers (Marvel Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Autobot - Freeform, Before they were famous, By any other name, Crisis, Cybertron, Decepticon, Deception, Diplomacy, Downward Spiral, Energy Shortage, Epic, Espionage, Friendship, Gen, Going to Hell, High Council, Iacon, Military, Over the brink, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Tarn - Freeform, Tragedy, Vos - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the cities of Vos and Tarn gear up for an all-out war, Lord Sarristec's star continues to rise and Emirate Xaaron searches frantically for a way to defuse the situation. Meanwhile, Optrion and Megatron are faced with the task of keeping the peace on the ground and preventing the tensions becoming a full-blown disaster. But with political machinations on one side and remorseless logic on the other, it is only a matter of time before something goes horribly wrong...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ancient History

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from 'Twilight of a Golden Age' and 'The Last Days', so you really should read those first. Especially as, since I'm using made-up names for most of the characters here to signify it being set prior to them earning the nicknames by which we know and love them, you might just get terribly lost.
> 
> As per usual, I'd like to thank DragonTail and The_Dancing_Walrus for their sage advice and wise council during the writing of this story. Also pointing out when I've missed words. For this, I am truly in their debt.
> 
> Now - on with the show!

**3.0: Ancient History**

**Cybertron**

**A very long time ago**

 

Quite without meaning to, he slipped into memory and in his memories, he ran for his life.

Tarn burned around him, ripped apart by a dozen conflicting insurrections. It was not so much a civil war as a free-for-all, warlords and their gangs struggling for control of the streets without any real plan for what to do next. Anyone with the wrong brand was a target. Anyone without a brand was a target. In fact, the only way not to be a target for someone was to hide under a rock.

And pray that no one came along to turn it over.

Vaulting the remains of a heavy construction mech, he made a dash for the cover of a nearby workshop, micro-shells raining down around him. Twisting as he reached the doorway, flinging up his arm and barely bothering to aim, he fired back. The cannon he had fitted in place of his left hand spat plasma bolts, burning shards that sliced angrily into his pursuers. The lead thug, a massive quad with blue optics and an enormous mortar fitted to its back, reared up and shrieked in pain, claws swiping great chunks out of the make-shift barricades scattered across the street.

Turning his back on it, he plunged into the darkness of the building, picking out a path through the detritus littering the interior. The place must have been used for fitting out aircraft at some point. Hulking engine cowls and the rusting remains of turbines loomed under the arching roof, turning the building into a twisting maze. Behind him, he could hear the rising growl of engines – smaller mechs or femes, he guessed, transforming to race after him in the tight space.

Their eagerness worked in his favour. Caught up in the headlong rush to escape, he did not see the collision, but he certainly felt the heat of the explosion and the rush of air that washed over him, driving him onwards. Someone – probably the giant quad – bellowed obscenities over the din. The engines rose in pitch, the remaining pursuers speeding up in response to the curses being hurled at them. He fled onwards.

Blind luck brought him to a gap in the workshop's far wall, one that opened out on to what was left of one of the orbital express-ways. He scrambled through and stumbled a little way out across the broken expanse of roadway. Looking back, he saw a blaze of lights rushing out of the gloom, making straight for him.

Fighting down a wave of panic, he flipped into tank mode, spun, lifted his gun barrel to point at the wall above the hole, and fired. The single shot – which swallowed a worryingly large chunk of his remaining fuel – detonated against the metal and blew it to fragments. For a horrible, lingering micro-cycle, the wall only sagged, stubbornly resisting the tug of gravity. Then, with an almighty groan, the panels gave way and cascaded down, completely covering the gap.

The muffled screams and reverberations told him that not all his pursuers had managed to stop in time.

Not willing to risk waiting to see if any of them managed to get through, or found a way around, he spun back and drove north along the express-way, as fast as he dared. It was rough going, avoiding the potholes and bomb craters that consumed most of the road surface. He managed to make it to a junction that had not been torn apart, though, and swung down into the underpass, transforming to find a better grip on the uneven surfaces.

He was met by the sharp click of an expanding weapons system. Automatically, he brought his gun arm to bear on the source of the noise and came face-to-face with a grubby yellow feme, her armour cracked and dented. Her optics widened behind the maser rifle, then she visibly relaxed and lowered the gun. “Thank Primus it's you.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“I thought you'd probably come this way. You or one of the others.” She looked past him, searching for something that was not there. “Do you know what happened to them after we ran into those Destrons?”

“No. I think Toraizer got away but the others...” He shrugged helplessly.

“ _Frag_. You think they made it?”

Not wanting to answer, he turned to look down into the heart of the city. Smoke was rising thickly from between the gutted towers, punctuated by irregular bursts of light and flame. There was no way of telling who was attacking whom and, really, it hardly mattered. The crossfire was all the same to those caught in the middle of it.

“We need to get under cover,” he said quietly, “It looks like it's moving this way –” The scream of jet engines cut him off. Five silvery darts hurtled overhead in close formation, banking to avoid a stream of flak that promptly erupted out of the approaching battlefront. His companion stared in shock at the vapour trails, and she started violently as more jets rocketed across the sky, groups of three arrayed in spread-out triangles.

“What in the name of – who the frag has the fuel for that many flyers?!”

“Stormhammer going by the colours on the leaders but...” He frowned. “But those are _Vosian_ models.”

“Vosans? Why would the Vosians be helping Stormhammer?”

The flyers were disgorging bombs now, points of glittering metal that tore up the ground in brilliant bursts of colour. “No idea, but I really wouldn't want to be Ruination at the mo –” Another wave flashed by, their bay doors gaping. “Get down!”

He shoved her away, trying to throw her back deeper into the meagre cover offered by the underpass. The ground shook, rocked, shattered beneath him. Pure noise flooded his hearing, the concussion from the explosion tossing him helplessly into the air. As the world shattered around him, he heard the yellow feme crying out, shouting his name.

“Xaaron!”

“XAARON!”

“Xaaron?”

The communications unit drew him out of his reverie, the collapsing towers of the old Tarn blurring back into the familiar golden glow of his office. Traachon's face was peering at him from the communication unit. He acknowledged and accepted the incoming call, noting with alarm how flustered the Iaconian Emirate was looking. “What is it? What's happened?”

“I think you should join me in the Decagon,” Traachon said slowly, “Xaaron...it's started.”


	2. War Games

**The Kahlian Ridge**

**The Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

A series of natural peaks formed by the collision of two of the great plates that made up Cybertron's surface, the Kahlian Ridge had always marked the boundary between Tarn and Vos. At one time or another, both city-states had laid claim to it, marking its highest points with guard towers and signal posts that were inevitably seized or razed the next time the border shifted. During some period of relative stability, long ago, it had been found that the geological accident that had lifted the Ridge had brought with it several thousand hix of pipework that would otherwise have been buried in the sub-surface. Direct access to Cybertron's own ancient and apparently endless fuel distribution network had secured the two cities places as major suppliers of energon and spurred them to explore their interiors for more convenient – and profitable – routes. After some minor wars over rights to the Kahlian pipes, both turned their efforts to safer paths, leaving the Ridge as something to be secured for prestige rather than for practical reasons.

Then the Tarnians decided that reactivating the Kahlian pipes would improve the efficiency of their fuel-distribution network.

Construction on the new distribution nodes had already begun when the Mahlex District had been bombed. In the wake of that disaster, efforts to complete the modernisation and bring the pipes back online had only accelerated. In almost no time at all, fifteen nodes had sprung up along the Ridge, each squat, heavy building looking ready to repel a sustained attack, never mind pump vast quantities of refined energon across the planet. The nests of automated sentry turrets made it very clear that Tarn was not taking any chances with the facilities' security.

Soon after Viilon's announcement that Vos had been involved in the Mahlex bombing, a squad of Vosian soldiers arrived at the main facility, presenting a declaration endorsed by the Conclave that formally demanded the removal of Tarnian personnel and equipment from its border. The workers and guards, incensed by the alleged Vosian terrorism, refused point blank to move or even confer with their superiors about doing so. The Vosians, incensed by the accusations, refused to back down or consult with _their_ superiors. Heated words were exchanged. Then shots.

By some minor miracle, no one was seriously injured and the instant their respective commanders realised what was happening, both sides were ordered to cease fire. With ill grace, the Vosians withdrew to _just_ the other side of the border. The Tarnians glared after them, stubbornly digging in that little bit deeper, making it clear they were not about to dismantle the pumping stations. Formal complaints raced through the ether, words a thousand times more violent than the actual incident shouted into the audios of anyone who would listen.

And far behind the border, to each side of the Ridge, deep within the castles and garrisons that ringed the ancient cities, soldiers readied themselves for what was to come. Stellar-cycles of military investment were paraded before eager commanders: massive armoured tanks bristling with armaments, sleek jets carrying enough ordnance to flatten entire districts, weapons that would have been illegal if their existence had been general knowledge – the arsenals were as varied as they were extensive. Their true numbers hidden in concealed staging grounds and the confused tangles of creative accounting, the two opposing armies had grown exponentially and in direct relation to one another. Spurred on by escalating fears and shameless espionage, they had been obsessively prepared for the day when the enemy finally gave up its pretence of civilisation and lashed out.

There were few who did not think that day was close at hand.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Grand Amphitheatre**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“At every turn, Tarn has proved its deceit and disregard for the laws and traditions that bind Cybertron together! Their attempts to discredit their opponents and their willingness to take advantage of those in distress only prove what we in Vos have always known: Tarn cannot be trusted!” Sarristec's words boomed out across the amphitheatre and no doubt carried down to the streets below. That was on top of the cameras relaying the speech the length and breadth of the city and recording it for posterity. Good. Vindication deserved to be shouted for all to hear.

He spread his arms with apt theatricality, grateful for the space afforded by the vast stage. It was always better to stand alone, unhindered by those who, by necessity, occupied the same level. Here, the line of lesser ministers and attendant hangers-on was safely tucked at the back of the platform where they would not distract the crowd from the speech or the mech giving it. “For many hundreds of stellar-cycles,” Sarristec went on, “we have been forced to watch as all the advancement and civilisation we have cultivated in this great city has been dashed to ruins not a hundred hix beyond our borders. The depravity of the Tarnian warlords was surpassed only by that of the peoples who allowed them to come to power. The labouring classes, not cherished and relied upon as they are here, but brutalised and twisted into savagery, turned their natural gifts of strength and endurance towards the most _base_ of purposes.”

Pausing, he allowed his audience to imagine those purposes for themselves. There was no need to spell it out. Everyone knew Tarnians were, to their core, killers and destroyers of beauty. Hissing rose from the tiers of perches spread out before him, all the way to the top where seats were crammed between the delicate, ultra-strong framework that held the amphitheatre aloft. Many in the crowd clattered their wings or banged their hands together in agreement.

“Every effort to aid them was rebuffed, every mercy mission violently rejected. Countless times the hand of friendship was extended, only to be smashed away!” On taking office and getting access to the Conclave's restricted records, Sarristec had discovered – much to his own surprise – that this was completely true. He had always assumed the stories of aid missions being slaughtered by Tarnian brigands to have been exaggerated but, as it turned out, even troops sent to assist preferred warlords into power had suffered betrayal and attempted murder. Some people really were beyond help.

“Then, when we were certain that Tarn would simply, safely self-destruct and free us from the shadows it cast over our beloved homeland, something even worse wormed its way up from the ruins! Viilon and his so-called _Logical Revolution_! Let us make no mistake about this: he may wear the guise of the saviour of his people, but Vii Cyol Lon is single-handedly responsible for the deaths of _thousands_! To secure a 'new dawn' for Tarn, he obliterated his rival warlords and rode to power on the backs of their followers' corpses! His _logic_ , his _reason_ , his vaunted _genius_ could find no other way to end the violence than one of the most colossal, cynical, coldly calculated acts of slaughter that Cybetron has ever seen!”

This brought a disgusted roar from the crowd and more applause. Sarristec spread his arms again, this time in a gesture of disbelief. “Yet despite this, Viilon has managed to maintain a veneer of moral authority that has fooled many into believing that he was _justified_ in his actions. Justified! Oh, yes, he has rebuilt Tarn – he has paved over the ashes of the past and put up bright, clean blockhouses. Does that cover up a foundation of dead bodies and spilt fuel? Does that excuse his crimes? No! Nor does it excuse the oppression his rule or the ruthlessness with which he implements his will. He has no regard for life! He has no regard for the values that are fundamental to Cybertronian civilisation! He is not _fit_ to be a head of state!”

Another roar of agreement. The applause became just a little frenzied. They were caught in his words, in the exhilaration of someone in power confirming their beliefs. Pausing again, Sarristec lifted his hand, signalling for quiet, posture and expression becoming sombre.

“There are those who tell us that the new Tarn is an improvement, that nothing could be worse than the turmoil that came before, that _peace is worth any price_. They say that we fear the new because we are entrenched in the old – that Vos belongs to the past and Tarn to the future. And they may be right.”

Silence, and the threat of anger. A frisson of treachery, the sharp anticipation of betrayal. He let them savour it, then broke the illusion. “Yes, Vos relies on the past. Because we remember it! We respect it! And we know that peace cannot be built on death! We know that peace cannot be bought with the fuel of the living, with murder and destruction and the shattering of the Covenants! Vos is a birthplace of Primes! Tarn is but a soulless factory, churning out weapons of war behind a veil of rationality! If that is the future, I say to you that we are _right_ to enshrine the past! Look around you!”

He spun in a circle, firing his thrusters just enough to lift him into the air, and encompassed the six mighty spires that supported the amphitheatre and the great, soaring minarets beyond in one expansive sweep of his hands. “If this stands in contrast to the future, if this must _fall_ before the future, then I want no part in it! Viilon's way is the death of morality! It is the end of civilisation, as base and violent as the anarchy that spawned it! This is not reactionary! This is sanity! This is belief in our ideals! This is faith in our history! This is our right not to stand idly by while our way of life is rejected in favour of hollow, pitiless 'logic'!”

The crowd howled its approval. As one, from the foremechs in the cheap-seats to the energetic academics in the middle rows to the business tycoons crowded in the private galleries, they rose and cheered and clapped. Sarristec smiled widely, showing his appreciation for their support. “We stand together!” he called over the adoration, savouring the success of his words, “The days ahead will be dark and dangerous. We face an enemy so insidious that many cannot see the threat even as it looms before them. But we are of Vos and that gives us the clarity of vision and strength of purpose to meet this challenge! Together, unified, as one voice shouting from the sky, we will soar high and emerge into the dawn strong and unbowed – Cybertron's true future!”

The amphitheatre erupted and Sarristec let the nationalistic fervour wash over him, beaming as the crowd bellowed its love of Vos, its love of _him_.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“If you can't get the exact numbers, can you at least get me a rough estimate?” Xaaron frowned at the voice in his head, the shrill protests digging into his processors like a diamond drill. “Yes,” he agreed patiently, “I am aware of how difficult it must be for you to release classified military intelligence to a high ranking member of the government that employs you but please do your best. It is quite important that I know just how big a bomb I am trying to defuse before I start pulling wires out.” The voice burbled on and he momentarily off-lined his optics in mild despair. “Let me put it another way: I need to make people more scared of a war between two of the most powerful states on the planet than they are of either one of those states individually and so I would like _very much_ to be able to give them accurate information on just how far into the Pit such a war would land us. Do you understand? Excellent. Yes, please do speak to your superiors. I shall do the same, which, since my superior out-ranks yours by being the head of state, means this whole conversation has been pointless and a colossal waste of my time. Good day.”

Cutting the communication channel, Xaaron snapped his attention back to the aides traipsing after him as he strode purposefully through the Temple's winding golden corridors. Unprompted, the nearest – a stocky brown truck with a blue faceplate – resumed the task of detailing and analysing the latest developments.

“It seems neither side is willing to start a war over a pumping station. Well, not _that_ pumping station at any rate. The line from both cities is that their borders are being threatened. Mainly the usual stuff about old treaties and fresh militarism, though the Vosians did throw out a legal challenge on the grounds that fortifying energon distribution plants to the degree the Tarnians are is a clear sign that they intend to horde fuel, in direct contravention of several Inter-State accords. It might just have traction and the Magnus' Office is giving it some serious thought. Half the states who take fuel from Vos have leaped on it, especially those who've had to switch from Tarnian energon because of Mahlex. They're calling for a Council investigation.”

“Which might not necessarily be a bad thing if it brings everything to a stop for a while...” Xaaron mused, tapping his chin, “Although after the Civic Guard's recent...public image problems, I'm not sure the Tarnians would be willing to – forgive me, Dionaat, please go on.”

Not showing the least sign of being perturbed by the interruption, Dionaat began again, “Praxus is leading the charge on that one. Coincidentally, they've just ratified another long-term energon contract with Vos, one that explicitly cuts Tarn out of the running as far as fuelling them in the future goes.”

“Is that legal?”

“I'm running the queries now, Emirate.” Dionaat paused, optics flickering. “Oh, and Lord Sarristec has just finished delivering a speech to a political rally taking place in Southern Vos. He was speaking on behalf of the Conclave, though he served as that area's representative prior to his elevation.”

“Is it too much to hope that he was calling for calm and moderation?”

Another pause. The aide's face was perfectly still as he replayed the recording to himself. “Yes Emirate.”

Xaaron heaved his optics towards the ceiling, erasing Sarristec's name from an ever-diminishing list of reasonable Vosian politicians. Another part of his mind whirred with dozens of recent inflammatory speeches, from Viilon's blunt accusations to the raging 'statements' regarding the Kahlian Ridge. It seemed that everyone involved was busy shouting at everyone else and no one was interested in listening to minor things like predicted consequences or suggestions of reconciliation.

Marginally more depressed, he skipped back to his lists and brought up files on the most recent shouter. “Sarristec, hmm? His remit appears to be widening if he's addressing rallies unescorted.”

“Officially he's still just responsible for Vos' energy ministry,” Dionaat stated, “However, he has certainly been giving more than his fair share of official statements and speeches lately. All reports indicate that he's well liked by the public, largely because he's seen as the face of modern Vos.”

“A profitable image to cultivate.” Xaaron downloaded the recording from the rally and reviewed it critically, wincing slightly at the enthusiasm with which Sarristec's oration was received. “And he certainly knows how to play to an audience.”

“There are rumours that he has Lord Taynset's particular favour, even that he might be being prepared for higher office.”

“That would explain a great deal.” The golden mech tilted his head. “I assume he is merrily making enemies and annoying his competitors?”

“I could not say, Emirate. The Conclave is being more than usually opaque and none of our usual sources have been able to provide us with a clear idea of how the various Lords view Sarristec's recent activities.”

“Ah. They all loathe him.”

Xaaron put his fingers together and the little procession continued in silence into a side passage lined with statues of ancient athletes. Dionaat kept pace, head slightly bowed. The other two aides exchanged brief data-bursts, compiling news reports from a dozen different sources.

“Well,” the Emirate murmured, “I wish this got us anywhere. But frankly, the Lords of Vos have always despised one another and it's never stopped them antagonising their neighbours before. Hm. We'll flag Sarristec for closer observation. His public appearances will probably coincide with major Vosian movements, or at least those Taynset wants widely known. Now.” He brought up his schedules. “The emergency meeting with Traachon and representatives of other concerned states. We need to approach Uraya and Tyrest. Hexima and Tyger Pax won't be enough to sway any major vote. I was hoping to include Tomaandi but if Vos has dug its claws into Praxus, he's unlikely to be much use. I will contact Vraylixx and Januun personally after my conference with Tryptatrion, but I want you to test the field before I do. See if you can get an up-to-date idea of how they feel about the situation. And while we're on the subject of preparation, there will probably be another extraordinary Council meeting this evening. Graviitus looked pleased with himself when I passed him in the archive hallway earlier. I expect he's received incontrovertible proof that Tarn's Kahlian stations are illegal. Again. Please do what you can to anticipate that. Since it's not the major issue I will not have time to focus much attention on it, but any useful background information will be welcome.”

They reached the entrance to Xaaron's office, the doors sliding smoothly open to admit him. Nova Cronum's elected Emirate turned and nodded to the mechs behind him. “Dionaat, Verba, Merrantron – thank you as always for your dedication and diligence. I am putting you under far more pressure than usual, I know, and you are coping magnificently. I think I would blow a processor if I had to handle this crisis without your help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get an aggravating minor official in trouble with our honoured Speaker.”


	3. Fire in the Sky

**Vosian Refinery Primon Six**

**Low Orbit**

**Cybertron**

 

Optrion hated space-walking.

He just wasn't built for it. For a ground-pounder like him, it meant far more than just coping with zero-gravity. It meant pressurising his body so that his fuel wouldn't boil in his pipes and shielding himself against hard radiation that threatened to fry his sensors in their housings. It meant augmenting his heat-exchanges to stop his components cooking themselves inside his exo-structure, and a secondary motivator system specifically designed to stop him flinging himself off into the void with an accidental gesture.

In short, it meant the cloying embrace of a hazardous environment shell.

The thick, lifeless plates gripped him tight, locked on by a thousand connection points. He could feel them dripping air and energy into him, an odd, uncomfortable process that overrode his body's natural functions. On top of that, the shell slowed and regulated his movement, making it feel as though he were wading through thick oil. His vehicle mode was completely out of the question.

That was the most unpleasant part. Being unable to transform made him feel trapped by the shell, not protected by it. He kept trying to stretch his wheels or shift his limbs out of their biped-mode sockets, only to find he couldn't. The dull resistance of inert metal held him solidly in one form.

He hoped he was hiding his discomfort as well as Vieuxuun. The green field commander wore his shell as easily as if it had been his own armour and moved about with the relaxed confidence of someone on familiar ground. Like Optrion, he stood on the back of a massive red and white Air Guardian, having climbed up from the space-jet's transport bay. Unlike Bentwing and the other flyers Optrion was used to serving with, the Guardians were fully capable of reaching orbit under their own power and utterly at home above the atmosphere. Their particular superstructure type had been cultivated as a means of protecting spacecraft from alien marauders – orbital insertion was as mundane for them as hauling battle-decks was for Optrion.

“ _Optics on target_ ,” Vieuxuun called out, his Air Guardian lifting slightly out of formation.

Optrion enhanced the view ahead. The Vosian refinery spun lazily against the starscape, stacks of fuel tanks and processing columns fanning from a spherical central hull. Spotlights picked out docking ports and observation platforms, and the occasional worker scurrying from gantry to gantry. Beyond, a hundred similar structures arced over Cybertron's equator, clustered above the cities they served. Brilliant dots rising from below marked the passage of surface-to-orbit tankers, greedy for fresh loads of energon.

Above, out towards the first moon, a lone freighter weaved and bobbed in an erratic loop, one of its engines blazing steadily while the others flashed and flared in an effort to counteract it. A deep-space hauling ship, it had first signalled its distress on emerging from fold-space some three hecta-cycles earlier. The crew had believed they could get their malfunctioning manoeuvring systems under control without any significant delay and, more importantly, in time to meet their rapidly approaching delivery deadline. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, their optimism had proved unfounded. There was now a real danger that they would smash into the refinery they had intended to dock with on and take it with them to a fiery death in Cybertron's upper atmosphere.

With no one willing to risk allowing a major Vosian task-force to fly up to a point that would give it as clear a view of Tarn as of the crashing freighter, it had fallen to the Defence Directorate to prevent disaster.

“ _Target confirmed,”_ Optrion signalled, reflexively crouching as the Air Guardian accelerated beneath him.

“ _Relax, boss,”_ it called up, _“I've done this a thousand times before.”_

“ _Intercepting an out of control space ship?”_

“ _Carrying a wheel-basher who's afraid of heights!”_ Laughter echoed in Optrion's head. _“Estimate two cycles to intercept.”_

“ _Will we be able to match the ship's trajectory properly? I don't like the idea of trying to dock with it tumbling like that...”_

“ _Could probably do it,”_ the Air Guardian responded seriously, _“But it's not my favourite plan. Better to get it stabilised first.”_

Vieuxuun spoke again before Optrion had the chance to ask if the jet had any ideas on how that might be done. The field commander was addressing the crew of the freighter, his words curt and stern. “ _Attention_ Eskaan Var _, we are approaching your position with the intention of rendering assistance. On behalf of the Global Defence Directorate, I am assuming full command of this situation. Please provide an immediate report detailing the status of the malfunctioning systems.”_

After the briefest possible hesitation, the freighter captain responded, the accompanying image showing a large, rounded avir with jewelled wings. _“Thank Primus! This is Kavylaniiss of the_ Eskaan Var _...err, err...reporting. We've been unable to get the rogue propulsion unit back under control. There's some sort of corruption in the core command routines. A virus, we think. My engineers can't cut the power, either. The feed lines keep rearranging and we can't disable them without risking igniting the cargo.”_

Given that that cargo was fifteen billion atroleedas of crude volatiles, Optrion did not blame the crew for their caution. If the oil in even one of the transport pods caught, it would likely blow the ship apart. With his optics boosted by the shell and routed through the Air Guardian's formidable sensor array, he could see the power lines writhing about around the afflicted engine, evading frantic attempts to deactivate them. The engine kept twisting too, constantly re-aiming the thrust plume to keep the ship heading towards the refinery. Every time the other engines began to reverse the course, the corrupted unit would flare brighter, shift and knock the trajectory back.

“ _Options?”_ Vieuxuun demanded, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the rest of the squad.

“ _I'm connecting to the_ Eshaan Var's _systems now,”_ said the communications officer clinging to one of the other Air Guardians, _“but I'm not sure I'll be able to do much more than monitor. This is some fragging nasty code – if you'll pardon the expression, sir.”_

“ _We should detach the cargo pods,”_ Optrion stated flatly, _“Once they're free, we can use the manoeuvring jets to push them clear and safely disable the infected engine. One of the refinery's tugs should be able to hook up with the pods well before they could collide with anything.”_

“ _It's a good plan, chief,”_ Kavylaniiss cut in, _“but there's a pretty big problem. We shut off most of the command pathways in that section to stop the virus spreading and...err...we can't disengage the clamps. Oh, most of them we can. Just not, err, the ones in that section.”_

As any one of those clamps could have held the cargo modules in place no matter how hard the manoeuvring jets were pressed, that was indeed a pretty big problem.

“ _We could try disabling the engine without removing the cargo,”_ observed the lead Air Guardian, a tactician nicknamed Contrail, _“If we evacuated the crew and got a clear enough shot –”_

“ _Absolutely not,”_ Vieuxuun snapped, _“Under no circumstances can we risk the cargo. Losing that amount of fuel could be disastrous, not just for Vos but for everyone who depends on them for energon.”_

“ _With respect, commander, that will be nothing to how disastrous it would be if this thing takes out an entire refinery.”_ Contrail angled himself to give the mech on his back a better view of the offending clamps. _“Our best bet is to fire short bursts of solid projectiles through the housing, puncture the fuel lines completely.”_

“ _Can you guarantee that won't cause an explosion?”_

“ _Well, no, but –”_

“ _Then I cannot authorise it.”_

“ _Errr, sorry,”_ Kavylaniiss broke in, _“But about getting us off the ship before you start shooting it...”_

Optrion stared intently at the freighter. It was in a standard interstellar configuration: the cargo pods arrayed in a long column through the centre, the wedge-shaped command module shielding them at the front, the three radiator booms fanning out behind it, then the ring of power-cores, then the engine modules. Connection shafts ran the length of the ship, holding the components together. The three locked clamps were clearly visible some way in front of the malfunctioning engine. There was nothing obstructing them; indeed, they were positioned on a relatively uncluttered part of the hull, far away from anything that might interfere with their operation.

“ _Excuse me, Captain Kavylaniiss?”_ His interruption silenced a heated debate about what kind of munitions would be least likely to cause the ship the disintegrate. _“Are the manual releases on the clamps still operational?”_

“ _Err...well, I suppose they must be. There's nothing mechanically wrong with anything...but the hatches down there are all non-functional and it'll take a fair while to get someone across the hull...”_

“ _Thank you. Commander Vieuxuun, I believe I have a potential solution.”_

“ _Go on, Lieutenant Commander.”_

“ _If I can be disembark as close as possible to the ship's hull, while on a near enough similar trajectory, I should be able to use my shell's gravity drive to effect a safe landing and access the clamps by hand. Once they are released, we can proceed as previously discussed.”_

Vieuxuun turned to look across the void at him. Optrion could not see his superior's expression behind his shell's protective mask but when he addressed the rest of the squad, it was with incredulity. _“Could that work?”_

“ _The inertia on that thing is enormous,”_ Contrail pointed out, _“The gravity drive_ might _be enough to equalise the difference but it will be a hard landing no matter how exact we get the manoeuvring. Still...yes, it could definitely work.”_

“ _And you are prepared to enact this...solution, Lieutenant Commander?”_

“ _I am, sir.”_

“ _Me too,”_ Optrion's Air Guardian said, dipping his wings before adding, slightly belatedly, _“Sir.”_

“ _Very well then.”_ Vieuxuun waved a hand imperiously. _“In the absence of a better solution, permission to proceed with the attempt. Units Three and Four, take up position to recover Optrion should he overshoot.”_

“ _Thank you,”_ Optrion said on a private channel to his Air Guardian, _“Forgive me, I never asked your name.”_

The jet laughed at him again. _“You didn't. It's Aerodyne. Bit less formal than 'Unit Two', yeah? And hey, don't thank me. I think this is crazy and you're about to go splat against the side of that ship, but like the mech said – no one's come up with anything better.”_

“ _Well then.”_ He braced himself against Aerodyne's back, hunkering down between the two great booster engines that the jet used for thrust outside the atmosphere. _“We'd better get on with it.”_

Aerodyne pitched and ignited his boosters. Riding a plume of white fire, they dived at the _Eshaan Var_ , accelerating and turning until they were flying roughly parallel to the ship, keeping it relatively 'above'. Using his retro thrusters, the Air Guardian started correcting his course over and over, moving ever closer to the hull and ever closer to the point at which their inertial frames would match. Looking up at the rapidly approaching expanse of golden metal, Optrion charged his shell's gravity drive and tried not to think about the momentum of the object he was about to jump on to.

“ _Almost got it.”_ Aerodyne's voice was taught with concentration. His engines shuddered with exertion.

Optrion bent his legs, preparing to leap. With a whine, the shell's in-built kinetic amplifiers cycled online. The _Eshaan Var_ was a wall now, practically close enough to touch. Aerodyne gave a yell and a last burst of speed. _“NOW!”_

Optrion jumped.

The gravity drive kicked in practically at once, reaching for the _Eshaan Var_ 's mass. Almost before he had time to fully process the sensation, he was falling, the hull rising to meet him. Very fast. The drive was reducing his speed, true, but not nearly quickly enough. He swung up his feet, cutting in the shell's shock absorbers.

Just in time.

He slammed into the freighter, or rather, it slammed into him. He cried, not in pain – the shell and his own internal systems saw to that – but simply with the shock of the collision. It felt as though every part of him had been driven backwards, as if he had been flattened by the impact.

For one horrible micro-cycle, he thought he would rebound, floating off, a slab of compacted metal tumbling helplessly into Cybertron's sky. But the shell's magnets had seized hold of the hull and his superstructure had only been jarred, not crushed. Awkwardly, he clambered upright. The buzzing in his head resolved into Vieuxuun's demands for a status report and, below that, Aerodyne's concerned hails. _“Hey! You OK up there?”_

Staggering slightly, Optrion located the nearest clamp, some little way to his left and signalled back. _“Am down and safe. Have sight of first target. Moving to commence disconnection.”_

Manually releasing the clamps was, by design, an easy task. He hurried between them, activating oversized gears and levers that laboriously dragged the great brackets back into their housings. Freed from restraint, their manoeuvring jets firing at full power, the cargo pods came free, decelerating into a higher orbit. Its burden lifted, the _Eshaan Var_ began falling faster and the rogue engine's efforts redoubled as whatever had seized control of it realised that it had been deprived of the cargo's explosive potential.

Shots from the waiting Air Guardians pulverised the still-active engine, shearing the wreckage clean off. Abruptly free of its influence, the freighter shot upwards, still unstable but not in any danger of causing a collision. It and its crew could be recovered at the Vosian space-authority's leisure.

Letting out a relieved hiss, battered shell creaking a little, Optrion sank to his knees. Now the pain was starting, the ache of dislocated components and disrupted subsystems welling up inside him.

“ _Good work, everyone,”_ Vieuxuun said across the command channel, _“Begin clean-up and prepare to return to base.”_

This was followed, more privately, by Aerodyne's cheery voice. _“Coming to pick you up, boss.”_ The space jet rose above the horizon of the ship's hull, boosters blazing. _“And hey, but you pulled that off better than I thought you would!”_

Smiling, Optrion laughed weakly and struggled back to his feet. _“Trust me,”_ he sent back, _“I'm as surprised as you are.”_

* * *

**The Conclave Chamber**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“The investigation – which remains ongoing – has shown that the virus infecting the _Eshaan Var_ was most likely transmitted from one of the fold-space beacons it used to navigate back into the home system. All the beacons are currently being examined in the hopes of confirming this and discovering who was responsible.”

A murmur ran around the table. There was not a mech among them who thought it could have been anyone other than the Tarnians. Sarristec transmitted the latest version of the investigation report to the rest of the Conclave, then continued. “Thanks to the efforts of the Defence Directorate, no harm came to the cargo and it has been transferred to refinery Primon Six. The crew of the ship are, I believe, being held under close observation in case one of them was responsible for the sabotage.”

“We do not really expect anything to come of it,” Omnitron said conversationally, “It is more a matter of thoroughness.”

“Is there any actual hard evidence to show Tarnian involvement?” Vvnet wondered aloud, her fingers playing with the holo-display in front of her.

“We need evidence?” Myyoc made a derisive noise. “It's obvious! They pretend we struck against their infrastructure, then they strike against ours. Typical Tarnian deceit!”

Irritated that his presentation was being hijacked, Sarristec smiled thinly at his fellow Lord. “It is also typical of the Tarnians to make claims backed up by falsified evidence. We should surely strive not to risk falling into similar behaviour.”

Myyoc's tail quivered as he looked sharply away, claws shutting tight. Taynset nodded, clearly seconding the rebuke. “Whatever our personal opinions, and however well-founded they may be, this is not a time for rash judgements. We will reserve our official statements until we are certain of our case. Thank you, Lord Sarristec, your attentiveness in this matter remains commendable.”

“My Lord.” Sarristec settled back, satisfied that his efforts were still being appreciated where it mattered.

Taynset gestured, updating the agenda displays. “We will of course be offering our praise for the gallant Defence Directorate soldiers who saved the cargo. Of particular note are three of the Air Guardians involved who it seems were originally proto-formed in Vos. Now, my Lord Myyoc, kindly enlighten us as to the current state of readiness of our own military forces.”

Tail still twitching, Myyoc reared up and projected a series of distribution maps across the table. “Thank you, my Lord. As you can see, we have reinforced our border units and intensified patrols in all out-lying territories. This is mostly merely a matter of form. The bulk of our military forces remain on standby here and here –” He indicated the relevant sectors with a claw. “– though we will shortly be commencing a series of exercises that will reposition them in more strategically important locations. That, however, is not the most important development.”

The displays abruptly changed, troop deployment schematics replaced with a full representation of Vos from the air, a beautiful pattern of expanding circles and blade-straight lines. A star-burst of streets and expressways.

Red markers popped up across the map, discs surmounted with vertical lines, above which hovered the unmistakable cross-sections of missile launching bays. Myyoc tapped his claws together. “A few hecta-cycles ago, the upgrades to our primary defence screen were completed. Thanks to Vvnet – and _my Lord Sarristec_ – brokering the appropriate agreements with Tagen, we were able to acquire the latest military-grade camouflage systems with no difficulty. These systems have been fully integrated into our stock of warheads and will, once activated, render the missiles virtually invisible to any interceptors attempting to lock on to them.” He snickered unpleasantly. “Whoever it really was who attacked Tarn, we should thank them for field-testing the Divratech sensor baffles for us. We are now extremely confident that should we ever need to launch a full-scale attack, it will strike its target.”

Another murmur ran around the table, one of satisfaction. The idea of being able to smite the enemy without them being able to stop you was most appealing. Sarristec imagined the missiles raining down on – and in the privacy of his own thoughts, there was no sense being coy – on Tarn, wiping away its ugliness with a tide of fire, undetectable until it was too late. For the briefest instant, he considered what it would be like to be on the receiving end, to see destruction bearing down on you and be unable to do anything about it... He smiled. A fitting end for those who would threaten Vos.

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” Vvnet said, armour flaring a little as she spoke, “But all the sensor baffles in the world are not going to stop an enemy from seeing the missiles coming. They might not be able to shoot them down but they'll be certain to respond to the attack.”

Myyoc bristled. “ _Naturally_ , we have run the simulations and we are reasonably confident that the enemy would be unable to launch a counter-attack in time. And even if it did, our own interceptor grid is more than capable of –”

“My Lords.” As usual, Taynset cut through the brewing argument before it could truly begin. “Whether an enemy could react to an attack from us is entirely beside the point. These defences exist so that _we_ may react to an attack by _them_. Let us focus on that.”

Chastened once more, Myyoc began detailing the specifics of the planned manoeuvres and their relationship to the upgraded defences. Sarristec tuned him out, internally reviewing the latest energon production figures and how they tallied with the various demands being placed on them. As always, he took a moment to appreciate the number of city-states now drawing their fuel from Vos. So many let down by Tarn, so many reneging on deals struck with Viilon now his thugs occupied Simfur...

Let the military play at war. True victory lay in Sarristec's domain.


	4. Manoeuvres

**Lord Taynset's Office**

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

Sarristec was surprised to find that Lord Taynset already had company.

In his experience, and the collective experience of the political establishment, Taynset always received just one visitor at a time. It gave the illusion that he was focusing solely on his guest's business even while his mind constantly considered any number of problems and issues facing Vos. Like all great politicians and leaders – like Sarristec himself – he recognised the importance of the personal touch.

The unexpected guest was a winged mech of unusually angular design and an exceptionally ostentatious gold/bronze colour scheme. He started from his seat when Sarristec entered, optics flying wide. Taynset extended a hand. “Calm yourself, my friend. My lord Sarristec, join us, won't you?”

Inclining his head, he accepted the invitation and crossed the room. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but I understood you wished to see me urgently...” He trailed off suggestively.

Taynset nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. We were nearly done here in any case.” He indicated the angular mech. “I don't believe you and Gellrauon are acquainted?”

“Indeed not.” Sarristec put out a hand, which Gellrauon stared at as if it might explode before nervously grasping it. “The recent scandalous claims made against you by the Tarnians have shocked us all. If there is anything I personally might do to help you seek redress, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Th-thank you,” the businessmech muttered, withdrawing his hand as soon as he was able.

“As a matter of fact,” Taynset interjected, “We were just discussing how it might be advisable for Gellrauon to step out of the public gaze for a while. For his own safety.”

“A sound plan, if I may say so.”

“Y-yes...” Gellrauon's optics darted too and fro, seeking every corner of the room. He looked as if he expected assassins to jump out from behind the sculptures. “Th-the Tarnians, I – I'm not safe, none of us are safe, but I'm...hn!” He flinched and stifled a cry as a discrete door in the far wall slid open.

“Ah, excellent.” Taynset beckoned a diminutive grey mech through the doorway. “As we discussed, I have arranged for transport to take you to a specially prepared safe-house.”

The grey mech bowed briefly. “If you will accompany me, sir, there is a shuttle waiting.”

Sarristec examined him covertly, more out of habit than anything else. The mech had every appearance of a lowly functionary. Everything about him was drab and unremarkable. Including, oddly, his energy signature. It was strangely muted, almost _too_ small even for someone so compact.

Gellrauon did not seem to notice. He nodded jerkily to Taynset, glanced fearfully at Sarristec, the statues and the room in general, and then allowed himself to be led meekly to the door. The functionary stepped back to let him go first, bowed again to the Lords, and followed the businessmech through. The door sealed up behind them, becoming lost in the shape of the wall.

“A tedious mech,” Taynset said conversationally, moving to pour out two small goblets of energon, “But undoubtedly a patriot and an influential enough member of the business community.”

“And with good reason to fear for his life,” Sarristec offered cautiously.

“Perhaps. Certainly I am not willing to put it to the test. More importantly, he needs to be kept safely away from anyone who might want to find out whether he really did order the attack on Tarn.”

The older mech handed across one of the goblets, which Sarristec accepted graciously. “Thank you, my Lord. If I might ask...do you believe he did?”

Taynset smiled, looking sidelong at his junior. “A dangerous question. One to which my answer does not matter. The issue is what is _perceived_ to be the case, not what actually happened.”

Sarristec bowed his head, recognising his mistake. He had allowed familiarity to get the better of political sense. “Of course, my Lord.”

Taynset flexed his wings, the blue half-diamonds flicking wide in a sweeping shrug. “Between ourselves, his fear of Tarn is great enough that I could believe it of him, though he denies it now. As I said, it does not matter. The Tarnians believe it was him, or say they do, and are acting accordingly.”

This statement held an air of finality and Sarristec knew that the topic was to be closed. He sipped his energon, complimented his host on the distillation and asked, “And how is it that I may serve you, my Lord?”

“Ah yes.” Taynset looked briefly to the city beyond the great windows. The towers around them shone with light, visible and ultra-violet as well as infra-red. Unlike those who mismanaged their resources or squandered them on the purely functional, Vos was as beautiful at night as it was during the day, a beacon of civilisation and culture.

“Lord Myyoc's plans to bolster our defences are not quite as complete as he would have us believe. He is thorough, yes, but his perspective is narrow. He has not considered that the Civic Guard retains a presence in Vos, however handicapped we have kept it.”

Sarristec frowned thoughtfully. “You believe they would try and stop us mobilising properly?”

“They would at the very least report any unusual activity to their superiors. That alone could feed compromising evidence to Viilon's agents. Worse is the possibility that they could intercede to prevent us taking necessary action against Tarn. It is bad enough that the Defence Directorate has turned its anarchist-hunting squads around to face us. Having the Magnus' spies actually within our borders will...complicate matters.” Taynset lifted his goblet but did not drink. “I am sure you have heard the rumours of standing Civic Guard protocols permitting them to disable long-range weaponry that could be used against another state.”

“Which would not be a problem if we could guarantee they would stop Tarn using such weaponry,” Sarristec mused.

“Quite.” Taynset sipped then nodded. “Viilon is capable of great deceit and he controls his city absolutely. There might as well not be a Civic Guard presence in Tarn at all, for they certainly would be incapable of preventing him from attacking us.”

“Then we must be free to act without their interference as well.”

“That is the conclusion I had reached.”

“But we cannot just expel them or demand that they be removed.” Sarristec began to appreciate the true shape of the problem. “That would be an affront to the Council and would alienate our allies.”

“I can see no politic means of effecting their removal,” Taynset admitted, “Reducing their energy allocation any further would be tantamount to trying to dismiss them from the city. Administrative blocks would have little effect in the middle of a crisis. The system itself sees to that. We have no means of acting directly against them.”

As he said that, a thought occurred to Sarristec. An image of white and blue figures being swamped in a tide of angry workers, riot shields failing before furious assaults. “We do not,” he said carefully, “But the people do. The people of Vos, if they knew how the Civic Guard threatened their safety, they could do what we cannot.”

Taynset glanced at him sharply, then understanding dawned across his features. “I see...yes...could it be done?”

Sarristec remembered a grateful Workmaster in Union One Four Three and an eager promise of loyalty. “I believe so, my Lord.”

“Then there is nothing more to say.” Taynset drained his goblet.

Inwardly glowing with the responsibility and trust that was being placed upon his undoubtedly deserving shoulders, Sarristec finished his own energon with relish.

 

* * *

**Four Majesties Plaza**

**Crystal District**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Aratron tried desperately to look like he belonged with the elegant people gliding across the great, glittering square. It was no good. His gangly silver body was hopelessly out of place among the fine-tuned blues and golds of the Elite around him. The looping streets and crystalline mansions were their world, not his – he was an unwanted intrusion from somewhere beneath their attention.

He huddled a little further into the shadow of Nova Prime's statue and wished for the three-thousandth time that Gauun had picked a more private meeting place. _Why_ he had chosen the Crystal District in the first place baffled Aratron. Neither of them belonged there. Even with all his ambition and pretensions, there was no way Gauun could believe he fitted in with the businessmechs and idle rich casually sunning themselves on the plaza. This was...another world. Where people had dozens of rooms to themselves, not just a single habitation pod each. Where you emerged from a Birthing Well alone, not with a batch of ten or twenty more just like you. Where you looked at a statue of a past Prime and recognised their design elements in yourself.

Aratron looked up at the over-sized golden version of Nova Prime, with his sleek body and ornate armour, and tried to imagine the power and grace that must have come with such a frame. There was nothing like that in his own dull, ordinary body. Nothing like that in most people's bodies, really. It wasn't just a matter of modification: bolting on extra components often just left you weighed down by the improvements, so that you no longer seemed to fit together quite right. You had to start out with it, to have that potential from the moment you were protoformed. Like flyers. They came online with the potential to defy gravity and it set them apart. For as long as he had been a body-worker, Aratron had wanted to work on jets. He wasn't stupid enough to think being close to them would make him like them, but to have a hand in shaping a body that could just step into the air and fly away was too fascinating to resist. The Elite understood that, he suspected. That was why they were so jealous of their Line Wells, why they spent so much time and money fashioning themselves into sleeker forms. They chased perfection because they could. They could afford to.

Was that why the statues of the four Praxian Primes stood there at the heart of the city? A challenge? Seeing them in pictures, Aratron had sometimes wondered if that was the effect they had when you saw them in person. Now he was actually here –

“There you are!” Gauun's slap on the back made him stagger. His friend was beaming and...sparkling. Every part polished and gleaming.

Aratron felt a bit annoyed that he hadn't come to Racetrack's to get it done. “Where have you been? I've been standing here for ages.”

Gauun waved vaguely at thin air. “It took a little longer than I thought it would.”

“ _What did_?”

“Oh! Didn't I tell you? I've just been organising a new contract with a high ranking member of the Ina Line.”

“Ina?” Aratron frowned. “As in _Avir_ Ina? I thought they were in mining?”

“Yeah, that's how the line made its money, obviously, but this guy's more interested in racing than rocks, so he branched out. He owns three teams on the big circuits now and they say he's going to buy at least one more before next season!”

“And this matters to me because...?”

“Because I'm working for him!” The way Gauun spread his arms wide was probably supposed to show that this was the best thing to have happened to anyone since the First Prime lit the Matrix Flame.

“Oh,” Aratron said eventually, as flatly as he could.

“Oh?” Gauun repeated in confusion, “ _Oh_? Is that all you can say? I say I'm working for one of the biggest individual sports financiers on the planet and you just say 'oh'?!”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Gauun suddenly clapped his hands. “Oh!” he said again, with much more vigour, “I didn't tell you, did I? Before I went to see him – he asked me to come up personally and show off any new designs I was working on, especially ones for racers, obviously – I sort of swore to myself that if I got the job, I'd try and get you work too – and I did! One of his regular bodywork mechs has just gone under, so there's an opening and he says if you're half as good as my recommendation, you're on –”

“Hey! Wait a cycle!” A hot edge of fury made Aratron's voice shoot up louder than he had meant it to. He took an angry step forward, doing what he could to loom over the mech in front of him. Which was stupid, because they were pretty much the same height but he didn't care. “I told you I wasn't going to just walk out on Racetrack. I owe him and I like him and there's no way I'm leaving him just because you're sparking off with some high-grade flapper-mapper –”

He stopped, as much for Gauun's look of utter astonishment as for the realisation that he was shouting in the middle of Four Majesties Plaza. On the edge of his vision, he caught a guardsmech eyeing him coolly, obviously judging how serious a threat the raving labourer was going to be to the safety of the district's more refined inhabitants.

“I meant Racetrack and you,” Gauun told him, waving frantically, “Racetrack's Precision Bodywork – hired to work at the, uh, race tracks! I know he doesn't do much of that stuff any more, but he always used to and you're really, really good, and I know Maksiina will see that if he gets the chance, and I know the shop hasn't been doing so good lately, and since you won't actually let me give you anything for free, I thought if I did this it would help, and...and...and there isn't really anything else, so I really hope you're not still going to hit me.”

“I wasn't going to hit you,” Aratron told him, hoping it wasn't a lie. The surge of anger and – yes, envy had caught him completely off balance. How long had he been keeping _that_ from getting out? “I...that...that sounds like a really good idea.”

“You sound really surprised about that!”

“I am!” Aratron slumped a little and pressed his hands to his face. “You didn't have to do it. It'd be a real help. I mean, I'd have to clear it with Racetrack. But given the way he talks about the old days, he'll probably jump at the chance. It's just...”

“It's just that I'm a thoughtless loser who never does anything for his friends.”

“I never said that.”

“You really didn't have to. And it's true. I don't do enough for you when I can. So this time I did.” Gauun stretched his arms wide and twirled on the spot. “Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because...” He looked down at his feet. “Because you're my friend and I want to help you out. And this is the only way I could think of doing it that you'd accept. You wouldn't leave Racetrack, you wouldn't just take money, so...this.”

For the first time in far too long, Aratron smiled widely and genuinely. “Sometimes, I think you might actually be half as clever as you think you are.”

“Hah!” Gauun waved a dismissive hand. “The real reason was I knew how jealous you'd get if I spent all day working on those racers by myself. You know how slick and sleek they all are.”

“Your new boss doesn't mind your delusions, then?”

“Oh, I think he appreciates a smooth frame just as much as I do. You should have seen how excited he got about my latest designs –”

“Oy! You two!”

A broad, square-faced mech was marching towards them, wheels twitching inside his chest. When he was sure he had their attention, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a group of people gathered around a nearby public network terminal. “Will you keep it down?” he demanded, “This is important!”

“So important you can't be bothered to switch to internal for it?” Gauun shot back, but Aratron put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” he said to the other mech, “We were just leaving. Come on.” He started dragging his friend away.

The square-faced mech nodded curtly and turned back to the network terminal. It was projecting images into the air around the crowd, pictures streaming in on the regional newsfeed. As they passed, Aratron looked closer to see what the fuss was about.

“ _...forces in Simfur detected and prevented sabotage by suspected Vosian agitators,”_ a flat, emotionless voice was saying over pictures of the Tarnian flag, _“It is probable that they infiltrated the city by travelling in one of the trading convoys passing along the border. As a consequence, no trading convoys from Vos or its allied states will be permitted to pass through the Simfur Divide until further notice.”_ From the looks on the faces of the people watching, and the massively in-depth analyses that were already spinning off from the footage, this was a serious development.

“Hey, Wheels? Want to get some oil before we head back?” Gauun asked, twisting out of Aratron's grip and into vehicle mode.

With a last worried glance at the newsfeed, Aratron transformed as well, rocking on his axels in a distracted shrug. “It's a bit too high-grade round here for me.”

“Hey, if we're going to be working for Maksiina, we'd better get used to high-grade living!”

“I don't think he's going to be inviting the hired panel beaters to the victory parties.”

“From what I hear, he's very generous when he wins!”

“Maybe he is, but you and me aren't the kind of people who look right in high-grade oilhouses. Well, I'm not. You get all polished up again and people might not notice you're just a Mech Un.”

“Funny. But hey, look, what does that matter? It's not like they can just turn away paying customers.”

“Yes they can.”

“Well, yes, obviously they can, but it'd be a bit stupid when everyone's complaining about not having enough customers.”

“I don't think that's a problem around here.”

“Look, can you just stop bringing up problems with my perfectly reasonable suggestion that we exchange good money for better oil while we have the chance?”

“The last time you took me to a high-end oilhouse, I got tossed over a cliff.”

“Oh, you have to keep bringing that up, don't you? Anyway, they threw me over too!”

“Exactly.”

And, bickering as only friends could, they set off on the long drive back down to the merchant districts.

 

* * *

**Regional Newsfeed**

**Lakatera Region**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Merchant groups have reacted angrily to the blockade, which they say is a politically motivated attempt to control goods traffic through the Qosho region. Many have claimed that the any security breaches are due to factions within Simfur antagonistic to the Tarn-backed provisional government and have denied any connection to trading convoys travelling through the area. So far, Tarn has refused to provide documentary evidence of its claims, citing recent alleged attempts by Civic Guard officers to conceal evidence of sabotage against Tarnian interests._

“ _Vos has categorically denied any involvement in recent incidents within Simfur. Spokesmechs have reiterated the position that the Tarnian military presence in Simfur is illegal and a direct provocation of the surrounding states. It is believed that Emirate Graviitus will bring a direct complaint before the High Council in the next few days._

“ _Investigations in the recent near-collision at a Vosian orbital fuel refinery have revealed that the freighter_ Eshaan Var _was deliberately infected with an override virus as it entered the home system. The virus was relayed via a official guidance beacon though the point of origin for the signal remains unknown. A detailed forensic analysis of the virus has indicated that it was highly advanced and contained military-grade coding. This has led some to speculate that it may have been the work of professional cyber-warfare operatives._

“ _Meanwhile in sports news, the forthcoming Golden League Tournament in Polyhex will go ahead, despite earlier fears that it would have to be cancelled due to civil unrest in the city. Large numbers of workers in the city's smelting fields had been threatening direct action amidst calls for better pay. However, a recent deal has defused the situation sufficiently for the tournament to go ahead. Taking place over three days, the event will see reigning champion 'Big Red' facing off against regional challengers in a series of gladiatorial matches. Tickets will go on sale in the next ten deca-cycles and it is expected that the two hundred thousand seat Vraoheln Stadium will be packed to capacity.”_

“ _Additional Defence Directorate forces have been dispatched to Heskaton in the Malhensi System following major seismic activity at one of the joint Kalis-Hexima mining facilities on the planet. It is now believed that three of the four drilling platforms have been compromised and are in danger of collapse...”_


	5. Desperate Measures

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“I'm sorry Emirate, but the Prime is not holding audiences today.”

The guard did not sound in the least bit apologetic. In fact, there was a faint edge of satisfaction in the refusal. Xaaron suspected this was a natural consequence of having to stand around all day guarding a pair of doors and acting with respectful deference to a lot of pompous diplomats. He would probably have taken immense pleasure in being able to frustrate their endeavours as well.

“I was assured that the Prime would speak to me,” he wheedled, trying to sound as if he had believed it at the time. “This is an extremely important matter and it cannot wait.” That was easier to say with conviction. With every passing day, the High Council was splitting further and further into the Vos and Tarn camps. “I am certain that the Prime is aware of the magnitude of the issues I need to discuss with him.” Not that Sentinel had shown any inclination to actually do anything about it. He preferred, it seemed, to sit in silence and stare over the Council's collective heads. “Even a few cycles of discussion could be extremely useful.” More like vital, but that might have sounded like desperate exaggeration.

A handful of states had rallied behind Nova Cronum and Iacon in calling for calm and compromise. It made no difference to the screaming matches between Graviitus and Haacano. Pitched battles raged in every Council session, the opposing armies hurling insults and legal quibbles at one another with unparalleled enthusiasm. Throughout it all, the Prime remained aloof and unmoved. He barely bothered to demand order any more. A few measly calls for consolation and understanding were the sum total of his contribution to halting the impeding crisis and Xaaron strongly doubted that the honoured Emirates for Vos and Tarn had even been paying attention. They were far too caught up in mentally rehearsing their next tirades to heed platitudes.

A loud, firm declaration from the Prime might not actually put an end to the feud but it would go a long way to cooling it down. And if Xaaron had to batter down every door in the Celestial Temple to get that declaration, he would just have to do so.

That plan, unfortunately, did not factor in battering down guardsmechs as well.

“I am sorry, Emirate,” the mech repeated, large wing-plates fanning out in a slightly threatening manner, “We cannot permit you to enter. The Prime is not to be disturbed. When he opens his chambers to audiences again, you will be informed. In the meantime, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”

Xaaron ran through a thousand arguments, ranging from reasonable to insult-riddled. He looked up into guard's engraved mask and knew that each would be as pointless as the last.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he grated, jerking in a sharp bow, “I will return at a more appropriate time.” He spun on his heel and marched away, the golden floor ringing with every furious step. It was almost too much to believe, that the Prime would deliberately retreat to his inner sanctum while the great alliance of city-states faltered around him and lurched towards...towards...

War. Xaaron felt something inside him shudder at the word. Old images, memories of ruins and flames filled his thoughts. But that had been in Tarn, confined, more or less, to one ravaged state. There had been no real, open conflict between two separate states since the days before the High Council. Petty squabbles, border disputes, all manner of underhanded interference in internal affairs – but not open war. Not two armies brazenly crossing recognised boundaries with hostile intent.

A horrifying scenario. After all, modern warfare had come a long way since Helix Magnus led the charge across the Primon Flats swinging a battle hammer.

Xaaron eased his hands out of fists and ran through everything he had done so far and the pitifully small difference it had made. And now he could not even count on the Prime, with the full glory of the Matrix Flame and the Covenants at his back, to step down from his tower and lend a few words to the cause.

He stopped. He stared at the statues at the end of the corridor, the figures of past glories rearing up above the intersection.

There was another way. The same tactic from another source, one with a vested interest in keeping things stable. Perhaps not as authoritative, maybe not as effective, but definitely more approachable.

Dionaat had fallen into step behind him some while ago, respectfully silent while his Emirate fumed. Xaaron turned to him now, a slow smile creeping across his mouth grill. “I am going to need transport to the Qosho region. Preferably fast.”

* * *

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

Megatron stalked around the edge of the map, considering the lay of the land. Vos curved with the coastline, following the arc of the Iron Sea, then swept inland, towers and minarets eventually giving way to gently rising slopes. The Kahlian Ridge cut northwards from the sea, as clear a division as the edges of a continental plates. Beyond the ridge, Tarn squatted in neat, geometrical patterns, streets and express-ways as precisely constructed as those in Vos but with none of the artistic flare. Functional buildings in functional rows, the architecture well matched with the vast industrial complexes that ringed the city.

The Mahlex District stood out as a blacked hole, an ugly stain on the picture of scientific precision.

Icons swarmed in the spaces between the two ancient cities, troops moving in waves as first one army then the other tried to guess where best to be. A constant influx of information from scouts and monitoring stations kept the map up-to-date and filled the war room with a background mutter of quietly exchanged messages, murmured analyses and humming calculation. The sounds filled the air, ceaseless and restless, rising and falling with moments of excitement and long stretches of monotony.

Like the audience before a fight.

The thought made Megatron want to strike his fist against the projector table. He was badly suited to watching from the sidelines. He yearned to stride in and _do something_. Standing by while others made mistakes was torture, always had been. In the pits he could have strode in and taken matters quickly into his own hands. Here, he was trapped outside the ring, unable even to shout down the idiots.

All that effort, all those mechs and machines, and for what? To waste precious fuel on securing the dominance of one set of petty fools over another? How could they not see the ruin that they would create, the harm they would do Cybertron?

Mega-cycles of hatred and mistrust, until the reasons were forgotten or reinvented as excuses. Anger and suspicion reinforced in every protoform until it was all but hard-wired into them. That was how. He had gotten out. He had seen the bigger picture, had seen threats to the world that made borders and ancient grudges seem trivial by comparison. But there was a time when he would have welcomed a war between Vos and Tarn. A chance, finally, to prove that Tarn was the stronger and in the right. No doubt that was what all those hundreds of soldiers thought as they scuttled across the map, making great shows of defiance.

If only he could force them to see what he saw.

Scowling at the map, he stabbed a finger towards one of the confirmed Vosian missile sites, a blazing red circle ringed with guard battalions. “Simultaneous disruptor strikes to that silo and the Trasvehl Advanced Base. Take out Vos’ outer launching facilities.” A layer of the map peeled upwards, duplicate icons flashing and scattering as the strategy playing out. Vosian patrols panicked and streaked after the intruding Defence Directorate forces, peeling away from their allotted perches.

“Disrupting the Tarnian installations won't be as easy,” Bentwing said from the other side of the map, gesturing. A miniature flight of Air Guardians skimmed Tarn's outer defences, warning symbols blazing as they tried to block missile launches and were forced back by a maze of anti-aircraft guns.

“We'll end up shooting down missiles in flight,” Optrion pointed out, using his own input into the map to demonstrate this. “Which is possible.”

“But not certain,” Megatron growled as dozens of purple daggers weaved through the red arrows trying to blow them apart.

He stood back, folding his arms. As ever, on the edge of his perception, he sensed Ravage's presence, a second shadow filtering the colossal influx of data from the front. The commanders around the table – Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade, two of Vieuxuun's mechs – looked expectantly at him.

“Move the Air Guardian staging ground twenty hix to the south and deploy the slower squadrons at the extreme edge of the neutral territory. That will get better coverage of the airspace.” He paused, then added, “Camouflaged interceptor batteries. They won't be as effective as jets but they can cover any gaps.”

“If Razortail takes half the light flyers and sets up camp in the west,” Bentwing suggested, “that would improve the distribution even further.”

“Can you maintain effectiveness like that?”

“Hm. Yes. Should be able to. If we split out some of the scout planes and –”

“Commander Megatron!”

Vieuxuun's voice boomed over the background muttering, sharp and definitely irritated. The green field commander strode determinedly across the war room, his face contorting. Megatron looked at him but did not speak. He was dimly aware of Ravage moving closer. The squad leaders and lieutenant commanders saluted smartly. Vieuxuun noticed neither, his attention fixed on the map and its glimmering tactical overlays. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“Strategy planning. A normal function of a military operation. These officers were providing their input on the best way to use the forces at our disposal.”

“That is not –” Stopping short, he glanced around with a grimace. “I would like a word with you in private, commander.”

“If you have something important to say about the proposals on the table, _commander,_ I would prefer you said it here in front of the mechs expected to carry out our decisions.

For a micro-cycle or two, Megatron was sure that Vieuxuun would insist on privacy or back down for fear of looking bad in front of his troops. But instead, he draw himself up. “Very well. This is pertinent to everyone assigned to the operation so it probably would be as well to have it said openly.” He half turned away from Megatron, the better to proclaim to the room at large. “We are here to represent the High Council. Our presence is a reminder to Vos and to Tarn that they have responsibilities to Cybertron at large and that action will be taken should they break the Inter-State Accords. In the discharge of that duty, however, we remain bound to those same Accords. Vos and Tarn are sovereign city-states. Without the express order of the Council, we cannot engage Vosian and Tarnian forces. Without the Council's authority, we cannot deploy long range weaponry along their borders. If there is even a hint that we are not behaving in a manner expected of the Defence Directorate, it could undermine any and every political effort to calm the situation down. Need I remind you all how the efforts of the Civic Guard have been twisted into anti-Council propaganda?” He thumped a fist into his open palm. “We are here to discourage rash action while the diplomats do their job. We are most certainly not here to prepare a full-scale attack on two of the oldest cities on Cybertron!”

His speech made, Vieuxuun flicked a hand firmly across the map, dispersing the tactical overlays in a gesture of finality. He turned back to Megatron, chin jutting. Megatron looked at him with a flat expression, his optics simmering orange. “And if it comes to war?” he asked, frigidly calm, “If the missiles start flying? Will you wait for the Council to give you permission to stop a massacre?”

“No one wants a war, Megatron,” Vieuxuun explained, patronisingly patient, “Anyone who started one would be acting not just against the Accords but against the First Covenant. They would be condemned before the Prime and would lose any support from their allies. It would be an act without reason.”

No one spoke. Megatron's hands flexed. Tearing Vieuxuun in two would be the work of a moment. He pictured the act exactly, in every detail, down to the feel of the green armour as it buckled and broke apart. His fingers twitched again as imagined electricity arced between them. “This. Is. Not. Iacon,” he snarled. The words came in time to the punches he was throwing in his mind, each a vicious, joint-shattering blow. “You think that because _you_ believe in the divinity of the Primes and the wisdom of the Council and the Inter-State Accords, that everyone else must as well?” Of course he did, the blind fool. _Jab. Crunch._ “No one in Tarn gives a flying glitch about the Council and the Vosians would sooner break every Accord ever written than give up one fraction of their power.” _Jab. Crunch._ “I _know_ these people. They do not care about the Prime or the Covenants. All they see is the enemy across the border, the threat that needs to be dealt with, by any means necessary.” _Jab. Crunch._ “They will not stop because you think they are being _unreasonable_.”

_Vieuxuun's head tore free in his hands, optics dying, neck sparking emptily. He raised the broken skull and the crowd roared his triumph for him._

Vieuxuun's faceplates shifted, his optics narrowing. If he had been annoyed before, he was angry now. Even so, he tried to hide it. Megatron could see him scrambling for dignity and self-justification, the way people like him always did. They could never just give in to their rage. They had to convince themselves they were right first. Had to be sure they would win in the correct way.

“It is clear we disagree,” Vieuxuun grated eventually, “And while I understand your perspective on this issue, our orders and our duty remain unchanged. There will be no further talk of moving disguised batteries to the border and I would appreciate it if you included me in any future strategy sessions.”

Megatron opened his mouth but Ravage cut smoothly across him. “Commander... _Commanders_ , I have a priority signal that I think demands your attention.”

Without waiting for instruction, he switched the main projectors to a communications feed. Static-riddled images of hundreds of mechs shouting and screaming at a Vosian building sprang up, a full-blown riot seen from a dozen different angles. Another image appeared in the centre, a panicked hexe in Civic Guard white and blue speaking rapidly to the camera. “*!&^*&–under siege! All guardsmechs have been recalled but we–!£&^^”$!!!**&*–hold out – they've started attacking anyone who tries to get out–!£^%&(**&–no help from Vosian security, no way to get –”

The communication cut out abruptly. Megatron spun on his heel and shouted to the nearest technician. “Get them back, now! Find out what's happening and how it started! Ravage, link me to the Magnus' Office. Bentwing, Optrion – get me extraction options for the Vosian Civic Guard base. Can we access it by air?”

“The Air Guardians have the biggest cargo capacity of our present compliment of flyers,” Vieuxuun stated, moving to examine the map as it refocused on a single Vosian district, “But we must consider the political ramifications of sending in an extraction team.” He looked up. “Connect me to the Vosian security authority,” he instructed, “I'll find out how much resistance we can expect.”

He caught Megatron's optic. The anger and mistrust was still there, clear as a loaded gun. The argument was not over. Megatron nodded all the same and turned his attention back to the map without a second glance.

In his head, the crowd bayed with disappointment at a fight left unfinished. But he cast them aside and focused his mind on the battle at hand.

* * *

**Civic Guard Base**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

A few cycles ago, they had started throwing building supplies. Panels and pipes ricochetted off walls and armoured shutters and filled the air with a din that threatened to match the shouting for ferocity. One enterprising group of heavy lifters found some waste oil and set fire to it, carrying it high into the air and flinging it down at the tower's upper windows. Others were using their on-board holo-projectors to paint obscene messages in the air or to highlight particularly energetic protesters as they thundered out their rage.

The Civic Guardsmechs huddled behind their barriers, any effort to appeal to their assailants' better nature long since given up. Once or twice, someone had tried to make a dash through the crowds, probably to try and find out why the Vosian security forces were not answering their calls for help. They had been forced back before they had managed more than a dozen steps, pelted with scrap and struck by any blunt instrument that could reach them. Any white and blue mech trying to get in from elsewhere in the city received an identical reception.

It could not have been going better if Sarristec had planned it all himself.

He had been tempted to give instructions to Hothouse and the other workmasters who owed him favours, but his better judgement had prevailed. Better by far simply to plant the suggestion that the Civic Guard had compromised Vos' security. Of course he had not incited them to go out and riot. No Lord of Vos would do such a thing. He had just called for their vigilance. Their help in ensuring the safety of their fellow citizens. If they had come away with idea that the Civic Guard was in league with the Tarnians, that too was a regrettable misunderstanding on their part. All he had said was that those appointed by the Council might not be paying attention to Vos' best interests in the execution of their duty. That they might not make the right decisions as Tarnian aggression threatened everything that Vos had strived to achieve.

This rioting was contemptible, the worst possible reaction to something that was little more than a vicious rumour. But even though that went without saying, it had to be admitted that the Conclave could not ignore such a violent public reaction. The Lords governed by the people's will and if that will had turned against the Council's appointed representatives...

It was regrettable. It was a shame. It was of course no reflection on the Council itself. But what could they do? The people had spoken.

Loudly.

In some cases with their fists.

Sarristec allowed himself a small smile and settled back to enjoy the show.

* * *

**Defence Directorate Staging Ground**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

“Make certain your weapon packs are powered down. The Vosians _will_ turn you back if they detect active weaponry.” Vieuxuun seemed more than a little absurd, shouting orders up at the towering Air Guardians. Contrail and Aerodyne were each about six times his height and their wingspans made them look even bigger. They obeyed him without question though, swiftly pulling the power-packs from their inbuilt cannons and shrugging off some of their detachable weapons.

“They're gonna be sitting targets if tha Vosians turn on 'em,” Ironhide muttered from Optrion's left, fingering his own rifle.

“They have the speed to get out of there if they need to,” Optrion pointed out, “Besides, both of them were protoformed in Vos, and the Vosian authorities know it. They have public image on their side.”

Ironhide made a noise that indicated just how much time he had for political concerns like that. Optrion could not blame him. The situation had seemed bizarre even before their two field commanders had had an open row about it. Now it felt ridiculous. He could see Megatron moving restlessly up and down the landing strip, glowering at everything that moved and occasionally flipping in to tank mode to glare along his barrels at the horizon and its crown of spires.

If he was honest, Optrion felt like doing the same thing. Perhaps it would have relieved the tension of not knowing if there was going to be a battle or not. Then again, looking at Megatron, he rather suspected it wouldn't. The extraction team was assembled on the runway now, eight mechs, three large avirs and four femes, all armed with nothing more than deflection shields and grappling hooks. It made sense yet it was hard not to think of the size of the crowds around the Civic Guard base and how small and unprotected the group seemed by comparison.

Megaton suddenly charged across to join the team. Vieuxuun saw it and ran to intercept him, the Air Guardians catching up in a few, massive strides. The two field commanders exchanged angry, muted words, and then Megatron tossed down his rifle, followed by several of his tank barrels. He stared defiantly at Vieuxuun, who shook his head in disbelief.

Megatron shouted an order up at the waiting Air Guardians and, exchanging a single glance, they transformed, mighty engines blazing into life. They swept in lazy arcs and lowered their access ramps. The extraction team split up, Megatron waiting until they were all in before following the group that had boarded Contrail. Vieuxuun shouted one last time, accusing him of disregarding protocol and endangering the operation. It had no effect. Megatron vanished inside and the ramp slammed shut behind him.

“Shoulda gone too,” Ironhide grumbled, optics following the huge white jets as they rose and banked towards Vos.

“You can't fly and there's a limit to how many passengers they'll be able to carry back. In fact,” Optrion added with a frown, “Megatron's mass might compromise the operation anyway.”

Vieuxuun came storming back towards the command platform. Optrion saluted as he drew near and the field commander slammed to a halt, optics narrowed to slits. “ _What_?” Optrion took a step backwards, perplexed. Then Vieuxuun turned away. “Say that again,” he ordered, obviously speaking into an open communication channel, “When?”

Whatever was said, it made him throw up his arms, though he caught himself halfway through the motion. He looked around wildly, then fixed on Optrion. “Lieutenant Commander! I have just been informed that the Emirate for Nova Cronum has chosen to pay an unannounced visit to the Qosho region. He will be landing in four cycles. You will take a small contingent of troops and escort him to the Tava Szenda birthing well. Once his business is concluded, you will see that he returns safely to Iacon. I hardly need stress,” he stressed emphatically, an edge in his voice, “that he is to treated with the utmost respect and deference due to his position.”

“Of course sir,” Optrion agreed, saluting again, “I will see to it immediately.”

“Very good.” Vieuxuun offhandedly returned the salute and disappeared into the command platform.

Optrion frowned after him. “Today just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?”

“The boss-mechs layin' inta one another, Vos Civic Guard under siege an' now a slaggin' Emirate come ta drop in an' visit?” Ironhide shook his head in disbelief. “Ah don't know 'bout you but ah'm expectin' a meteor strike by sundown.”


	6. Divine Intervention

**Tava Szenda Birthing Well**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

Xaaron was not at all what Optrion had expected.

He _looked_ like an Emirate, emblazoned with the lustrous gold and silver of his rank, and he presented himself with the easy confidence of someone used to high office. At the same time, he was...small. A middling-sized tank with an antiquated military exo-structure and the sort of mouth grill that had once been favoured by Tarnian soldiers – physically, there was nothing especially awe-inspiring about him. He bore no ornamentation and had made no effort to disguise his original function or form. Used as he was to the High Council being a grand, distant concept, Optrion found it disconcerting to come face to face with a Council member who was only a colour scheme away from any other veteran commanding officer.

“Good of you to be here to meet me, Lieutenant Commander.” He greeted Optrion warmly, saluting smartly as he stepping down from the transport, “I apologise for the inconvenience. I did try to avoid you but my transport was challenged by your guards and thought it best not to lie about his cargo.”

“That's quite all right, sir,” Optrion reassured him, “We are here to assist you in any way you require.”

“Very kind of you.” Xaaron clapped his hands. “Well, let's not waste any time.”

He walked past the squad lined up at attention and stared down into the canyon before them. Far below, the lake of proto-matter glinted in the sunlight, swirling sluggishly from side to side. The temple sat on the far shore, a collection of buildings that looked more like filigree than architecture. Tiny figures moved through bridges and cloisters with sombre grace, intent on mysterious errands.

“I hope they let us in,” Xaaron muttered, apparently to himself. He turned and transformed, shifting shape with evident difficulty. His panels and levers ground against one another, not quite fitting together properly. Optrion had heard of symptoms like that caused by age but had never met anyone old to suffer from them. It took Xaaron several micro-cycles get get fully into tank form, and a few more for his drive systems to properly engage. The entire squad was in vehicle mode by then. They fell in behind Xaaron as he drove on to the great ramp that wound down into the canyon, Optrion just behind the Emirate.

“Do they know you are coming, sir?” he asked, wondering if they were going to have to stand guard while the old mech argued with the gatekeepers.

“I sent a message ahead requesting an audience. I have not received any reply. So far.”

“You intend just showing up at the gate?”

“That tends to be the easiest way to gain admittance to somewhere.” Light, good humoured sarcasm. “And this is important, Lieutenant Commander. We do not have time for perfect social niceties.” Harder words, brooking no argument.

Optrion kept quiet and followed Xaaron down.

* * *

Close to, the Birthing Well was alive with waves and shapes. The road leading to the temple gates skirted the very edge of the pool and Xaaron found it hard not to become mesmerised by the half-formed patterns that writhed and surged through the silver mass. Was that how the Circuit Masters had started out? Had they stared so long into the proto-matter, looking for order in the primordial chaos, that they had forgotten how to look away?

A cynic might claim that was why the Order of the Dai existed: that the Circuit Masters, supposed guardians of the Birthing Wells, were so lost in their own deep and meaningful thoughts that the actual duty of defending the unborn generations had to fall on others. But of course there was more to it than that. True, the Order stood guard against outside threat, but it was the Circuit Masters who cared for and cultivated the Wells. They intimately understood the proto-matter – how it ebbed and flowed, when it was ready to be energised, the best moment to stamp a template upon it. That was their science and their art: the shaping of life. Obsessive focus upon such a task was surely forgiveable.

Two members of the Order stood guard at the temple gates, a mech and a hexe. Both held their swords ready as the little column of troops approached. Anyone coming towards the temple was always presumed hostile until proven otherwise. The merest sign of aggression and they were honour bound to retaliate until the offender was a smouldering heap of spare parts. Many jokes had been made about the Order's inflexibility but that single-minded devotion to duty had kept the Birthing Wells safe through countless wars, major and minor. They had stood firm in the face of strife and upheaval that had shattered governments and torn up alliances.

Xaaron could not help wondering if the first Dai had truly understood what he was starting when he first carved the Second Covenant into his armour.

Lieutenant Commander Optrion transformed and presented himself to the guards, arms held out to the side, weapons systems disconnected. It was an impressive display of correct protocol, thankfully so as Xaaron was too busy changing form to make the gesture himself. His sub-structure groaned with the effort and he was sure a couple of minor spurs gave way as his torso rotated. It was so easy to dismiss his age in the comfortable confines of Iacon, where transforming was seldom necessary. Out in the real world, his body betrayed itself.

“We are here to escort Emirate Xaaron of Nova Cronum to his meeting in the temple,” Optrion explained, careful not to move, “My orders are to ensure that he reaches his audience safely and to escort him away again on the conclusion of his business. I defer to the Order on security within the temple and would request only that I be allowed to accompany the Emirate so that I may do my duty and provide him with such assistance as I am able.”

The guards examined him in silence. A long while passed before the hexe nodded and he and the mech drew aside. The gates shuddered and opened, segments untangling and retracting in turn.

Optrion nodded his thanks and turned to Xaaron. “Emirate?”

“Oh no, Commander, please. You appear to have everything marvellously in hand. I defer to your expertise in protocol.” This evidently startled the big red mech and he stammered an apology that Xaaron was forced to cut short with a raised hand. “I am quite sincere, Commander. I am grateful to have been assigned someone so conscientious.”

“Then, forgive me Emirate, but it would be far more appropriate for you to lead the way.”

Xaaron smiled. “Of course. After me, then.”

Ancient architecture always gave the impression of being designed to over-awe everyone and anyone who beheld it, whatever their station in life. There was a grandeur to it lacking in modern buildings built for more practical purposes in a less energy-rich age. The temple was a perfect example of the style: a series of golden arches, deceptively large and strong, woven together to form chambers and hallways. In some places, the arches had been guided into spirals, creating towers – the better to watch over the Well.

Inside, all was light and silence. Elaborate patterns of mirrors and prisms guided shafts of sunlight into vaulted passages, filling them with webs of colour that illuminated ranks of bejewelled statues. History's saints stared down at them as they passed, benign and untroubled by the eons that had left them behind. These were the figures that the newly proto-formed looked up to in their first cycles of life – the Celestial Dai, the Highest Circuit Masters, the Primes – the ideals to which all of Cybertron was to aspire. They were hallowed. Inspirational. Their names resonated with everyone, high and low, in every society, in every city.

That was the theory, anyway. The idea of ideals that every protoform was given on the day of their birth.

Time to find out how much power those ideals really had.

An initiate met them at the gate, swathed in a flexible covering to protect its still-hardening electrum coating. Without a word, it guided them through halls and cloisters and into a large semi-circular room dominated by a towering frieze covering the straight wall. The initiate abandoned them before it, gliding away, still unspeaking. They both relaxed into the stance of people who have endless patience for standing around doing nothing. Xaaron found it amusing that the posture had not changed in the many, many mega-cycles since he had been a solider, and he suspected his amusement must have shown because Optrion began an intense study of the figures engraved on the wall.

Xaaron stepped back to get a better look. “Impressive, isn't it?”

Optrion jerked, ever so slightly. “Yes, Emirate.” He seemed about to say something more but stopped himself, either out of deference or embarrassment. It was hard to tell.

“You know what it represents, yes?” Xaaron kept his voice neutral, trying to avoid sounding patronising.

The soldier hesitated, probably unsure what he was supposed to say. Then he nodded. “The aspects of Primus.” He raised a hand, pointing to the images in turn and tracing the lines between them. “Mech, hexe, feme, quad, trac, cyol, avir, plex, joined in the light of the Matrix Flame. The many-formed, the half-sparked, the dwellers-in-the-deep. The Celestial Temple, the Sonic Canyons, the Manganese Mountains. Towers and chasms and the spans between. The moons. And the whole. Cybertron as Primus. That’s the point,” he added after a moment’s thought, “That’s why the figures are intertwined. Parts of the whole, a whole built from parts. Primus in totality.”

“Very well put.” Xaaron smiled, optics still scanning the frieze. “You clearly know your theological symbolism.”

“I was a hauler for the archives in Iacon,” Optrion told him by way of explanation, “I helped move several totality maps for restoration.”

“Ah. Which also explains your familiarity with the ways of the Order. It must have been interesting work.”

“It was. I...I actually considered becoming an archivist myself for a while.”

Xaaron clasped his hands behind his back. “I assume the feeling did not last.”

“No. It seemed too much like shutting myself away from the world. That did not...” The big red mech trailed off discontentedly. Not entirely surprising. Discussing his past life plans with a member of the High Council was surely not what he had expected when he was assigned as escort.

Time to move the conversation elsewhere. “There's another layer to it, of course.” Xaaron nodded towards the engraved figures. “The faces. It's an ancient pictographic language. They spell out the Covenants.” He raised a hand, indicating them in turn. “Defend life in others and in yourself. Care for that from which you arose and to which you shall return. Transform yourself beyond that which you are. Hm. Transform and transcend. Of the three, I've always thought that was most open to interpretation.”

If Optrion had an opinion on the matter, he did not get the chance to share it.

* * *

The chamber door opened and the High Circuit Master swept in, much to Optrion's relief. He had not been prepared for holding a conversation with the Emirate, much less getting into a theological discussion with him. As unassuming as Xaaron was, it still felt wrong to be making small talk with someone in such an elevated office. Optrion was much happier to stand at attention and focus on fading professionally into the background. As much as he could fade into the background in such grand surroundings. He felt dwarfed by it all, yet certain that everyone was staring at him, the ungainly red intrusion into a world of golden elegance.

The High Circuit Master could not have been more fitted to the temple if it had been one of the ancient statues come to life. A tall, spindly figure moving with slow, stately grace, it hummed with the clicking and shifting of all the functions normally hidden by panels and armour. An electrum skin polished to mirror brightness reflected the world around it, so much so it seemed to be wearing the glory of the past in place of any normal covering. Calm, steady white optics blazed from a domed head stripped of all adornment and expression – the kind of face Optrion remembered from his first moments of consciousness, speaking reassuring words as he struggled to make sense of suddenly being alive.

He looked down, not wanting to stare. The High Circuit Master continued towards them, staff of office tapping rhythmically on the floor. Xaaron bowed, lowering himself to one knee. “Master, I greet you in the name of the people of Nova Cronum, by whose will I am honoured to serve, and in my own name, for I return to you as a scion of Tava Szenda, from which the Flame lifted me and into which, Primus willing, the Allspark will take me again.”

It was a pitch perfect ritual greeting. Optrion could not help but be impressed by the smoothness with which the Emirate switched from idle conversation to formal protocol. The golden mech had not missed a beat.

“Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda,” the High Circuit Master intoned, planting its staff and making a 'get up' motion with its free hand, “I gladly welcome you to the Well from which you rose and to which you will one day return. Come freely in the name of life and the Flame and speak with me of what you will. I serve you as I serve all.”

Xaaron got to his feet, offering another, less extravagant bow. “Master Velan. Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice. Normally I would not dream of being so abrupt but circumstances dictate an unusual degree of haste.”

Velan passed its hand between them. “We are not completely insulated from the world here, Emirate. I believe your agitation to be well-founded.”

“Would that it were not.” Xaaron grimaced. “I need your help, Master.”

“Then let us talk.” It turned its white gaze to Optrion. “And this one...?”

“Op Mech Trion Novus Zar, Master,” Optrion introduced himself, uncertain whether he was expected to bow as well. He had never encountered a High Circuit Master during his time with the archives, dealing only with the novices and initiates who ran the temples from day to day.

“The Lieutenant Commander can listen or not as he wishes,” Xaaron said with gentle indifference.

“Very well,” Velan acknowledged with another glance at Optrion, “Make your proposal, Emirate, and we shall see if it pleases Primus that I agree.”

Xaaron paced once before speaking, turning back to the frieze for a moment. “We are on the brink of a war,” he began bluntly, “Tarn and Vos are actively and aggressively threatening one another's sovereign authority and it is my belief – and the belief of the High Council at large, whether it admits it or not – that it is only a matter of time before they escalate to open conflict. Neighbouring states are being swept up in the hostilities, often without much choice. Those two cities control vast economic and military resources: they can force support for their causes and are doing so. If the tension is not defused, this entire region will be drawn in and set alight.”

It was an extremely bleak assessment and it matched perfectly with the tactical and strategic analyses Optrion had been working on since being assigned to the Qosho Region. Master Velan did not appear all that shocked by it either. “We have watched the anger grow with great sadness,” it said sonorously.

“And I am sure that I do not need to tell you that the loss of life in a full scale war between two of the most powerful city-states on the planet would be horrendous. Even if the fighting were restricted to Vos and Tarn's armies – and it would not be – many hundreds would perish. The collateral damage and the suffering that would result...” Xaaron let that hang there, not needing to finish.

Velan contemplated his words, then asked, “You think you know how to stop this?”

“I hope I do, Master, sincerely. I fear it will bring only a respite from the conflict but at this stage, any time gained is valuable.” Pressing his fingertips together, Xaaron moved a step closer to the Circuit Master. “If the two sides could be brought together, publicly and on neutral ground, I think that they might be persuaded into some sort of truce, however temporary. Much of their power rests on how they are perceived by other states –and they know it. They want to be seen a certain way, to prove that they are better than their enemies and to hold the moral authority. On those terms, I think it might be possible to reach them. If a person of sufficient cultural, social and moral strength were to call upon them to attend talks in Iacon to settle the peace...then they would likely agree if only to preserve their image.”

“And you would ask me to be this...person of strength?” Velan sounded worried by the notion and the clicking of its fuel regulators grew agitated.

“I would. You are a High Circuit Master, one of the oldest and most respected. More to the point, your temple and the Well that you care for sit right in the middle of the battle lines. A plea from you on behalf of the lives this war would endanger, living now and yet to come, would carry enormous weight.”

Velan's fingers drummed on its staff. It stared at Xaaron with half-dimmed optics, body quieting. “You ask much of me, Emirate. For surely it is the Prime's voice that must speak, the Prime who must stand forward in life's name to halt this horror born of pride and anger.” Its voice remained mild and was all the more dangerous for it. “Would you ask me to act in the Prime's stead, Xa Mech Aron?”

Xaaron smiled. “If I had not come prepared for that accusation, Master, I should not have come at all.” He spread his hands. “The Prime has taken a position of neutrality. He has called for moderation but he will not risk legitimising either the Vosian or Tarnian stance. And he may well be right to do so.”

That was the first time that Xaaron said something Optrion was not convinced the Emirate himself believed. It did not sound like an out-right lie, but there was the slightest hint of sarcasm buried deep in the modulation of his voice, not unlike the almost-concealed contempt Megatron displayed when he talked about Commander Vieuxuun. Maybe it was just the turn of the conversation reminding him of the manoeuvring of his superiors, yet Optrion did not think he was mistaken.

If Velan picked up on it as well, it made no comment and Xaaron went on, “The Prime is bound up in the Council's politics. You are not, Master, and you also hold the respect of all peoples in this region, no matter their alignment. You are not seen as an outsider – and regrettably, the Prime _is_. I hesitate to presume so much on your behalf, Master, but it is quite possible your voice would carry _more_ weight in this matter than Sentinel's.”

“You do presume a great deal, Xa Mech Aron.” The Emirate actually flinched at the High Circuit Master's tone, and Optrion came very close to doing the same. Velan's staff scraped across the floor as it turned half away, optics flickering. It paced stiffly to and fro, fingers drumming once more.

“And you, Op Mech Trion?” it asked abruptly, looking back, “What would you have me do?”

Jolted by the question, Optrion stood dumbly for half a cycle, utterly at a loss for words. He could feel Xaaron's optics boring into him just as much as Velan's, willing him to answer correctly. He managed to open his mouth and forced his processors to function. “I...” He wanted to say it was not his place, that this was a matter far beyond a simple soldier. But the sheer intensity of the Circuit-Master's gaze permitted no such evasion. “If something could prevent the war, Master, then it should be done. And if words from you could bring Vos and Tarn to the conference table...”

“Then I should speak.” It was physically impossible for it to do so, but Optrion was sure that Velan smiled wryly. “How straightforward it sounds. Never mind that I should be allowing trust of a sacred office to be used for political manipulation. Never mind that I should be presuming a position above the Prime. Never mind that what authority I have should be claimed by Nova Cronum and its allies. The end is just and so the act is.” The Circuit-Master lifted its staff and rotated it, absorbed in the way the light bounced off the carvings along its length. “We stand guard over the future. We owe no allegiance, we respect no authority higher than the will of Primus. Our lives are given not to the world but to life yet to come. We abandon everything beyond the rim of the Well in order that we can guide each new generation up into the sunlight without favour and without prejudice. The end is just and so the act is. And I hear your argument already, Emirate Xaaron, that the war would threaten this Well and those nearby and all those lives who have sprung from them. It has been an age since the Wells were themselves threatened and an age beyond that since the Order of the Dai could not protect them from harm. I would dearly like to hope that it will be an eternity before that changes. That this conflict will blow over like a passing storm, doing no more harm and leaving no more scars.”

It slumped, letting the staff strike against the floor. “But hope is a poor shield against falling bombs and the horrors of science turned against the First Covenant. This may fail, Emirate. They may not listen to me any more than they have listened to you.”

“Yet we must try,” Xaaron said softly, meeting its eye.

“Yet we must try,” Velan repeated, looking at the floor. “Very well, Emirate of Nova Cronum. I will speak. I will call for peace talks. I will pledge my support to those in the Council who work for an end to these pointless hostilities.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Thank me when this works. For now, speak to me of specifics. What exactly would you have me do next?”


	7. Channel Hopping

**02.065.1012 Summary Run**

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Violence in Vos – rioting labourers lay siege to the city's Civic Guard base! Anti-Council protests become open confrontation as anger at alleged cover-ups leads to attacks on officers! Conflicts escalate and angry workers drive guardsmechs back behind barricades!_

“ _A daring rescue mission – Commander Megatron leads an unarmed Defence Directorate team into Vosian airspace! The Hero of Kolidahl shields Civic Guard personnel as they are evacuated aboard Air Guardians! Even as the crowds grow increasingly hostile, these mechs focus on the task of getting their civilian comrades to safety!_

“ _A direct hit on Commander Megatron! Drenched in flaming oil, he stands firm and lets out a terrifying war cry, momentarily startling the rioters into silence! Surely, they must be ashamed to lash out at a mech who has done so much in their defence!”_

 

* * *

**The Grand Slam Report**

**Global Newsfeed**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _...after which Vosian military flyers escorted the Air Guardians to the border, where they rejoined the Defence Directorate task-force currently undertaking peace-keeping duties in the region. Questions remain however as to why Vosian internal security did not come to the assistance of the Civic Guard during the disturbance, and why they allowed the incident to get so out of hand. I am joined by Lord Sarristec, representing the Vosian Conclave._

“ _Lord Sarristec, many are seeing the lack of support for the Civic Guard and the general apathy shown by internal security forces towards what amounted to a full scale riot as further indications that the Vosian government is now taking an anti-High Council stance as part of its official policies. How do you react to those who say that this is a first step towards Vos splitting completely from the Council and the Inter-State Accords?”_

“Well, first of all let me say, as I always seem to when I'm on your feed, Grand Slam, that Vos remains committed to a peaceful, unified Cybertron. We would never adopt a position that threatened the stability and prosperity our planet has enjoyed for stellar-cycles. This incident was extremely regrettable and I can assure you that investigations are ongoing at the highest level.

“At the same time, we cannot ignore the growing discontent with the way that recent events have been handled by many Council-backed organisations. Given how high frustrations are running – as recent troubles in the Tagen Heights have highlighted – it may well be time for some serious questions to be asked about the relationship between those tasked with keeping order at an inter-state level and those they are supposed to be protecting...”

 

* * *

**Planetary News Feed**

**Qosho Region Local**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _High Circuit-Master Velan's broadcast comes amid increasing military activity along the Vos-Tarn border. Blockades of trade routes across the region remain in place, with Vosian soldiers occupying the Drem-Vitzix Interchange and Tarnian forces continuing to turn merchant convoys away from Simfur. Despite repeated protests by leading businessmechs, neither city has lifted its restrictions. Trains entering the region are being diverted into holding loops and land traffic is being intercepted and turned back along most major routes._

“ _As yet, neither Vos nor Tarn has officially responded to Master Velan's call for peace talks, but unofficial sources close to the Vosian Conclave have indicated that they will support a conference provided that Tarn shows willingness to abide by any agreements reached. It is expected that any such conference would be held in Iacon and the factions within the Council that have been attempting to mediate between Vos and Tarn – led by Nova Cronum and Iacon itself – have welcomed the High Circuit-Master's support._

“ _Several commentators have expressed surprise that a traditionally apolitical religious figure has come forward to join the debate. While Circuit-Masters have in the past advised governments on matters concerning the Birthing Wells or wider spiritual issues, this is the first time in recent memory that one has taken a stance on a purely political issue. It is surely an indication of how serious the situation has become that Master Velan has done so now.”_

 

* * *

**Special Report**

**Tagen Local News Feed**

**Cybertron**

 

“ – _started just as the morning work shift was beginning, when a group of Tarnian merchant mechs seized a Vosian freighter. The Tarnians claim that the crew were attempting to transport controlled technology to augment Vos' military forces. They have taken over the freighter's command module and appear to be attempting to destroy the cargo. The Vosian crew is resisting them and the fighting has spilled over on to the dockside, where pent-up frustrations among the work-crews have ignited._

“ _This reporter understands that the violence is not limited to Vosian and Tarnian nationals and that Tagan labourers have been seen taking sides. The Civic Guard has now cordoned off the immediate area and they are moving in to contain the situation._

“ _I'm going to move in closer and see if I get a comment from the officer commanding the operation.”_

“ – take patrol squads two and three around to the west side and try to cut the Vosians off before they reach the volatile store on platform five. Clutch, I need you with the fire suppression teams. Make sure they get the best vantage points. Glitter, are those mobile repair bays active yet?”

“Damnit Diatrion – I'm a pathologist, not a field medic! Why couldn't you have grabbed someone else to pitch out into the middle of a riot? And yes, yes they are!”

“Good. The North Sector med-techs have the other side covered. Just patch up anyone who needs evac –”

“ _Investigator Diatrion – Squawktalk, Tagan Local Feed. Can you tell everyone at home how you're planning on regaining control of the situation.”_

“What the – sir, this is a hazardous area at the moment. Please fly back behind the cordon.”

“ _Will you be attempting to storm the occupied ship? The docking clamps have been locked solid: do you believe there is a risk that the Tarnians will attempt to move the freighter out of the docks?”_

“Sir, please – Dinuxx, watch out for the lifter on platform seven! Sir, I am trying to coordinate with my colleagues. Please get back to a safe distance.”

“ _Is there a risk of this conflict spreading? Is it likely that conflict between work-crews and their employers will be reignited by this incident? Is the Civic Guard prepared for an escalation in incidents of this kind as tensions between Vos and Tarn increase –”_

“Sir, if you do not remove yourself immediately, I will be forced to ask one of my constables to –”

KATHOOM

“ _Ack! Viewers, a massive explosion just ripped through the freighter's cargo pods, showering the immediate area in shrapnel and flame! There are fires all across the dock now, some of them right in the middle of the rioters and –”_

“Get him out of here, right now! Fire suppression teams one and four, move in – patrol squad six, cover them –”

_[Connection terminated]_

 

* * *

**Priority Message to the Directors**

**Silver Ridge Technological Foundation**

**Polyhex**

**Cybertron**

 

_It is my unpleasant duty to report that we can no longer afford to continue operations at our Tagan complex. Unrest among the labour grades coupled with increasing restrictions on goods traffic in the area mean that it is no longer viable to maintain the facility or its staff. All essential materials and staff will be transferred to the Yuss facility pending reassignment. All non-essential staff will be laid off and non-essential materials will be sold for as good a price as can be attained in the current climate. In the interests of public relations, one-time redundancy payments will be offered to all workers in lieu of benefits and energy allowance._

_It should be noted that the Tarnian government has extended an offer to purchase a number of research projects and prototypes that were previously being developed at the Tagan complex. At this time, I would not recommend accepting this offer. It remains extremely unclear who will gain the upper hand once the current political manoeuvring is complete. Moreover, previous dealings with Tarn have proved unprofitable and to be a significant public perception risk. Tarn's well-known technological advances have largely been focused in the military sector and this Foundation has always sought to distance itself from that area._

_I will transfer to the Yuss facility immediately to oversee the fitting out of laboratory space. My deputy will handle arrangements at the Tagan end. We will continue to keep the board appraised of our progress._

_I remain your servant:_

_Casst Avir Ina_

_Executive Operations Coordinator_

_Qosho Region_

 

* * *

**Encrypted message**

**Low-level communication channel**

**Simfur**

**Cybertron**

 

_Heavytread,_

_We're not going to last here, brother. The Tarnians have stepped up their patrols again. The so-called government just lays down and lets them roll out whatever damn thing they want. The curfew's just an excuse to given Viilon's thugs something to shoot at. We lost Swingwing last night. Don't know if they took him but either way he's dead._

_If you think you have a shot at getting the Vosians to help us, take it now. Everyone's saying that it was them who blew up the security post in the gardens of Light, and Mystionn swore he helped some foreigner cross the border. If they can get stuff to us, weapons, fuel –_

_Could be our last chance. We all hate it, but we need someone to help or this is all going to have been for nothing._

_We're counting on you._

_Moonshine_

 

* * *

**Internal Communication: Elita to all senior Temple Guards**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

_You all know what's happening in three days' time._

_Functionally, the peace conference will just be a meeting of the High Council with a few extra chairs. We are not expecting any trouble inside the Temple itself, although the Bodyguard will be conducting regular sweeps for unauthorised objects, spies, assassins and journalists. Your job will, as always, be to stand around looking impressive and to keep everyone moving in the right direction. If Vos and Tarn start a war in the Council Chamber, your first priority is to defend the Prime. Protect the Emirates and other delegates to the best of your ability but Sentinel's safety comes before everything else._

_The media, gawkers and protesters are going to be out in force, so we will create a two hix exclusion zone around the Triumphant Steps. The Civic Guard will handle everything outside that. You have responsibility for all visible security within the Temple boundary. The Bodyguard will be maintaining the scanner stations on all the entrances and the Red Watch will be on crowd control duty. Everyone who is not absolutely necessary to proceedings will be barred from the Temple precincts and will need to be cleared out tomorrow. They have all been notified, which is why my console is now full of messages from angry clerks._

_One complication is that Circuit-Master Velan is going to be attending as well and the Matrix Keepers have insisted on handling his visit themselves. That should not be too much of a problem but it will mean a couple of extra golden-bods cluttering up the halls. Orinixx, you are in charge of looking after them. Maybe if you have your hands full with religious types, you won't get caught making faces at Emirate Tomandii again._

_Individual orders are enclosed. Brief your teams. I want everyone at their professional best for this. Anyone makes Temple Security look stupid when the world's watching and I will personally feed them piece by piece to the Great Devourer._

_Good luck to us all._

 

* * *

**Needlenose's Need to Know**

**Gold Fashion Feed**

**Praxus**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Yes yes yes! He's done it again! Up-and-comer Gauun – who first broke out on this very feed – has secured one of this season's top contracts as the_ personal _designer for the Red Ridge Race Team! We have an exclusive first look at what he's bringing to the game and WOW!_

“ _It's sleek! It's stylish! It flows with every line of those hot rods' bodies! And just look at the way it_ moves _! Stay on this feed for the full showroom download!_

“ _FASHION ALERT! Spots are back back back! Get down to the nearest body-shop and get them on!”_

 

* * *

**Encrypted feed**

**Protihex**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _The blockades are becoming a problem. A little restriction is good for business but this...they're cutting too many routes off.”_

“You want to pull out?”

“ _Much more of this and it won't be a choice. Our buyers in Vos aren't making it worth our while to run Tarnian checkpoints. They've got squads down in the low sub-levels now for Pit's sake. The Vosians are smuggling most of their contraband themselves anyway.”_

“Do we really want it said that the Black Shadow doesn't honour its promises?”

“ _Do we really want our best couriers shot or locked up?”_

“...you make a good point. Fine. Suspend Vosian transfers for the moment. But I want you to monitor the other players, especially those who do well in this crisis. We are not happy that business is going elsewhere.

“ _Of course not. I've got my optics on a few concerns who seem to be doing better than they should be. Looks like the Tarnians are using some of them to infiltrate Vos."_

“Typical politics. Always messy.”

“ _You got any idea what'll happen if this all goes up?”_

“You're the one on the ground. You tell me.”

“ _Hard to tell from down here. It's getting damn tense though. Everyone's on edge, even my top mechs. Had a feme nearly rip Trilock's tail off last night because he was shooting off about how Tarn'll wipe Vos out.”_

“You able to keep order?”

“ _Of course I am. Doesn't mean that I like having to cut down my own._ ”

“Just ride it out. It'll pass.”

“ _It better. I don't want to be around here if the Big Two can't keep their missiles in their silos.”_

 

* * *

**Secure channel**

**Government Section 4:55**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

_Unregistered Simfur mech identified from records as anarchist combatant “Heavytread” intercepted attempting to cross Vosian border._

_Negative response to order to halt._

_Combat ensued – subject terminated._

_Returning body to Tarn Central for memory retrieval/cross-reference: location of resistance bases._

 

* * *

**Nova Cronum diplomatic channel**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Tell me Xaaron: do you really think this conference will make a difference? You have put so much energy into it and yet I still cannot see Vos and Tarn settling their differences at one Council meeting.”_

“Any time gained will make a difference. My sources tell me there's a possibility that at least one member of the Conclave is advocating a less aggressive stance. If we can give her time to strengthen that position...”

“ _Heh. I do not suppose it can hurt that Lord Taynset will be in Iacon, either.”_

“One would very much hope not. And even if it's foolishly optimistic to expect grudges mega-cycles in the making to be resolved with a few carefully chosen words by an outsider, we can at least establish the grounds for a dialogue.”

“ _And stop them just shouting deafly at one another. Yes. That would be a step forward by anyone's reckoning. Will Traachon lead the mediation?”_

“As is the right of Iacon. He knows what is at stake. I trust him to serve the role well.”

“ _And what of the cost of failure? Xaaron, I have never been a soldier and I have little conception of what a war would mean. The facts and figures I ordered our intelligence service to release to you seem terrifying but what do they mean on the ground?”_

“That both cities have arsenals the likes of which have never been known before. Heavily modified and augmented soldiers. Enough troops to conceivably stage full-scale invasions of one another. And long-range weaponry that...concerns me greatly.”

“ _You think they would go so far as to launch missile attacks against each another?”_

“I know they would. The question is, under what circumstances would they do so? Even knowing the temperaments of the two cities, I am not certain... Traachon shared information with me recently – you will have seen it in the encrypted dispatches – the Defence Directorate's analyses of Tarn and Vos' border defence grids. There is the suggestion that each city has erected rings of sensors linked directly to the main silos. If one steps on the other's territory...”

“ _They would do that?”_

“Tryptatrion, Vos feared Tarn's rise so much they once broke the Accords in all but name by sending soldiers to help the most violent warlords in massacring their own people. Tarn has never forgotten or forgiven that and the hatred that comes from the memory united them behind Viilon when he promised to make them the strongest city on Cybertron. I am honestly amazed that the slaughter has not already begun and I'm sure that it is just the desire to be seen as the defender rather than the aggressor that is holding them back.

“Thank you for trusting me enough to give me the freedom I needed to try and stop this insanity.”

“ _My friend, if I did not trust you to do the right thing in the name of Nova Cronum, I would not have ratified your election to Emirate in the first place.”_

“I...know there has always been some objection to my appointment though. I came to your city late in life and, in truth, I think there are many who expect me to turn my back on you and join with Viilon at any moment.”

“ _I am not one of them. I know you better than that. As for the rest – those who join the Defence Directorate swear to leave allegiance to city and state behind. You left the military calling nowhere on Cybertron home and I am proud that you chose to come here.”_

“Thank you...I...am proud to have been accepted.”

“ _You earned it. And I will be glad to have you standing beside me in the Council Chamber.”_

“I'm glad that you and I will not be the only ones standing there.”

“ _Iacon, Nova Cronum, Altihex, Uraya, Hexima, Tygr Pax and Ankmor. Quite the coalition.”_

“Master Velan's words reached many. Our careful outlines of the consequences of a war reinforced the message.”

“ _Luckily, those words reached Vos and Tarn as well.”_

“As I said, they each want vindication. Our job will be to persuade them that they can have it by being the first to agree a peace, not to start a war.”

“ _Let us hope we are up to the task.”_

“We have to be.”

 

* * *

**Personal Log – Field Commander Vieuxuun**

**Defence Directorate Command Channel**

**Qosho Region**

**Cybertron**

 

_I continue to be concerned by Commander Megatron's reckless attitude to combat situations. His undoubted heroism in leading the rescue mission to the Vos Civic Guard base could easily have resulted in another Simfur-style incident whereby the presence of a well-known Tarnian-born soldier incited the rioters to even greater acts of violence, thus endangering all involved. It is extremely lucky that his theatrical outburst did not have such an effect all on its own._

_Megatron's single-minded approach to problems may be fitted to the kill-or-be-killed environments on the uncivilised frontier of Cybertronian-controlled space but it is hardly suited to delicate domestic operations requiring significant political awareness._

_Morale remains variable. I am aware that some troopers, particularly those in Commander Megatron's battalions, are expressing frustration at having to exercise restraint and not interfere with on-going Vos/Tarn military activity. I am glad to say that such complaints within the ranks I myself command are minimal. My soldiers appreciate that while such action is confined within the cities' respective borders, our place is here, monitoring events, not intervening._

_Fortunately, the grumbling has not resulted in any more inappropriate 'strategy sessions'._

_On a separate note, I am pleased with Lieutenant Commander Optrion's handling of the recent visit to Tava Svenda by the Emirate of Nova Cronum. It is pleasing to see that time spent on the frontier has not diminished the reverence for tradition and protocol that he, as an Iaconian, must inevitably possess. I may make overtures to him with regards to transferring him to my command. His record is moderately impressive, but shows signs that he has learnt perhaps too much from his present superior. It would benefit him to spend so time in a more disciplined environment._

_Vos and Tarn troops continue manoeuvring along the border. They remain on high alert but have not taken any overt action against one another. I am still of the opinion that these displays of hostilities will not escalate. It is simply not in anyone's interest to allow it to do so._

 

* * *

**Local News Feed**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _As preparations continue for the Tarn/Vos peace conference, residents in the Upper Temple and the South Orbital districts are being asked to submit to security checks ahead of the delegates' arrival tomorrow. The Civic Guard has requested citizens' cooperation as there are concerns that extremist groups may attempt to disrupt proceedings. Protests are expected throughout the conference, with radical group 'Fuel For All' threatening direct action against members of the Tarnian government in retaliation for reductions in fuel exports. From this evening, traffic through the city gates will be suspended, and additional restrictions on aerial movement within the city limits will remain in effect for the duration of the conference._

“ _For more information on how the security measures will affect you, please tune to the official Civic Guard public information feed._

“ _In other news, concerns have arisen about the stability of Iacon-based industrial giants Silver Ridge Technological Foundation and Inter-State Solutions following their decisions to pull out of the Qosho region. The closure of their major facilities in Tagen and Vos, respectively, is expected to leave hundreds out of work. While the Vosian Conclave has pledged to transfer skilled personnel into state-run industry, no such aid is expected from a Tagen administration facing increasing labour-grade dissatisfaction. A key transport hub, Tagen is nevertheless struggling to support a rapidly increasing population._

“ _Silver Ridge's decision to close its research complex in Tagen's Under-Town district comes after consolidation of a number of other scientific units across the planet and a retraction of its bid for mineral rights in the newly claimed Si-prima star system. The Foundation, which is owned in part by the prestigious Avir Ina clan, had previously invested heavily in the failed Anska mining operation. Inter-State Solutions had been expanding rapidly in recent stellar-cycles thanks to the support of several Solaria Region cities but is now facing a downturn in customer –”_

 

* * *

**Scrambled Channel**

**Unidentified Location**

**Tarn**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _I know you can hear me Viilon. I know you can because you hear everything in this damned city and I know you listen to it all._

“ _You have to see what you're doing. You have to see where this is going. You have to stop._

“ _You're smart. As smart as me. Smarter, maybe – which, trust me, is hard to admit. You've got to see it too – the patterns. The consequences. Where this is all going._

“ _Pull back. Stop and pull back._

“ _Listen to me Viilon. I'm still here. I'm not going away. Your thugs can't find me. And I'm just going to keep sending this until you listen._

“ _Come on Shockwave! Think. Use that logic of yours and look at it all. See where the patterns are leading. Do you want a war you can't win? Do you want everything you've built to fall down?_

“ _I know you can hear me. Listen to me. Stop now, before it's too late. Before you can't stop it._

“ _Stop before the patterns run out of control. Listen to me._

“ _I'm not going to stop. I'm still here. I'll keep sending until you listen –”_

 

* * *

**Priority Channel**

**Air Traffic Control (North Arc)**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Iacon Control, this is Syska Mech Liomm on flight 29-27, carrying Lords Taynset, Sarristec and Omnitron of the Vosian Conclave. I am inbound on final approach requesting landing beacon.”_

“Understood, Syskaliomm, landing beacon now being beamed to you. Your escorts are to pull back to course 10-00-07. Air Guardians will fall in with you for the final hundred hix and Red Watch flyers are standing by to guide you through the outer defences. Welcome to Iacon.”

 


	8. Last Chances

**3.7 Last Chances**

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Many years ago, when Sarristec had been just another scientist-in-training at the Vosian Academy, he had visited Iacon as part of an exchange programme. Then, as now, he had been struck by how  _ancient_ the Golden City was.

Iaconians prided themselves on it. The foundation of Cybertronian civilisation. The first city-state. The fortress of the First Primes. Here was where the Matrix Flame had ignited. There stood the beacon forged by Helix Magnus to mark the end of the First Chaos War. In the shadow of those great walls, champions had fought and dynasties had risen and been overturned. Ideologies and theology that had come to be known across the planet had originated in this place, with scholars who spent their days looking up at the immense spire of the Celestial Temple. For the people of Iacon, their greatness lay in the great weight of monumental events for which their city had been the backdrop.

Yet the truth was that as those events receded into history, Iacon remained unchanging. It stood as it had always stood, a city of shrines and monuments steeped in ceremony and tradition, any advancement or innovation quietly hidden away in case it altered the way things were done. Cybertron moved on while Iacon rusted beneath its gilding and it was left to others to lead the way into the future.

Looking around the Council Chamber, it was clearer than ever that only Vos could carry that burden.

The ring of seats had been expanded to nearly twice its normal size to accommodate the delegates. Two additional sections had been created within the ring for Vos and Tarn and a short arc in front of Sentinel's throne had been separated out for the mediators – to give them the appearance of having the Prime's support, if not the reality of it. They sat there now, a gathering of mediocre states clinging to the vestiges of relevance. Small wonder that Iacon's Emirate was at their head.

The rest of the Council awaited the start of proceedings with noticeable nervousness. Emirates and other dignitaries arranged themselves to show their support for one side or, for a few, their neutrality. Irritatingly, the Vosian and Tarnian 'sides' were about equal, although those who were aligned with Tarn looked far more uncomfortable about it. Obviously they were beginning to realise the mistake they were making.

As the Vos delegation entered, the murmured conversation filling the hall died away. Sarristec schooled his face into a solemn, stern expression. It would not do to show open contempt just yet. He walked a few steps behind Lord Taynset, side by side with Emirate Graviitus. Omnitron trailed behind them, a spare part scarcely distinguished from the aides who followed. The old mech had always been one of Taynset's staunchest allies but he was severely lacking in charisma, not to mention appearance. A tank, even as sleek an example of the type as Omnitron no doubt was, was never going to be an impressive sight next to two of Vos' most elegant jets.

Taynset did not bow to the mediators so neither did the other members of the procession. He took his seat without ceremony, shifting his wings to a more comfortable position and folding his hands together. Sarristec sat next to him and did likewise. Muted discussions began again, a few of the mediators surreptitiously comparing documents and updating one another's files. A flunky scurried up to the Speaker of Nova Cronum and spoke in an urgent whisper. Whatever was said, it clearly disturbed the heavily ornamented mech and he turned to exchange urgent words with the dull-looking Emirate next to him. They looked across at the Vosians with dismay.

“ _Just look at this rabble!”_ Graviitus beamed smugly, _“And they dare to try to censure us? You have nothing to fear speaking before these strutless fools, Sarristec.”_

He bristled at the familiarity presumed by a blustering second-rate ex-politician, but Taynset said smoothly,  _“My Lord Sarristec is eminently capable of representing Vos in any forum. He need never fear otherwise.”_

Which was most pleasing to hear and Sarristec acknowledged it with a small smile.  _“I am honoured to serve –”_

The voice of one of the guards boomed through the chamber. “Viilon, High Governor of Tarn!” All optics turned to the doors. Quite naturally, Sarristec expected to see a procession of Tarnian diplomats, if such a thing were believable. Barbarians playing at being civilised. A carnival of brutes affecting the trappings of refinement.

But no. A single figure stalked into the room, a single massive figure with a single vivid optic.

There was indeed something brutal about Viilon, but it was nothing to be mocked. Strength and power emanated from him. He seemed built entirely from thick slabs of indigo armour that would have been artless if they had not fit together with such precision. This was no mere back-street brawler or petty murderer, as politically useful as those images were. This was a superbly engineered warrior and it was totally believable that he had ended stellar-cycles of war virtually single-handedly.

Sarristec was not intimidated easily. He was a Lord of Vos, one of the Conclave, a mech of significance and influence, and more than accustomed to dealing with powerful people. This though, this was different. There was no aggression in Viilon's posture, no emotion of any kind save perhaps a quiet confidence. But his sheer, unrelenting  _presence_ filled the chamber completely and it was all Sarristec could do to keep his own emotions in check. A quite un-Lord-like surge of fear made him wish he was somewhere, anywhere else.

Only when he looked across at Lord Taynset's calm, unconcerned face did the panic die down. He got a hold of himself and composed his expression similarly, adopting the air of one to whom physical power is an extravagance making up for a lack of wit and intelligence. Of course it was all a front. A 'logically calculated' show of might designed to impress the weak-willed into believing that Tarn possessed either merit or true strength. Fear as an argument, violence as a means of government. How simplistic. How contemptible. How very Tarnian.

Viilon did not take his seat but stood near it, staring ahead, not so much as acknowledging the presence of the Vosian delegation. Emirate Haacano followed a moment later, composed and dignified yet irrelevant next to his superior. They were really inordinately dissimilar. True, Haacano had some indigo plates in his armour but otherwise, he was a shiningly obsolete ornament next to a terrifying weapon of war. The contrast would have been amusing under other circumstances.

On an unspoken signal, the rest of the gathering rose to join the Tarnians on their feet, the Vosians doing so slowly and with dignity. The Prime entered solemnly, curiously unimpressive after Viilon's arrival. The spear seemed less a badge of office and more a means of support. Sentinel moved with an unnatural stiffness, his footsteps falling heavily and with no real strength. For all his undoubted stature, the world was leaving him behind, just as it had already left behind the decrepit figures who shuffled in behind him: Master Velan and a couple of lesser Circuit Masters followed by four sombre Matrix Keepers swathed in their all-concealing coverings, all of them carrying staves of office. Sarristec wondered why it was that religious leaders should feel the need for such ridiculous signifiers of authority. Were he ever to be so desperate to need to impress others with his importance, he prayed he would at least have the sense to do it with something less ostentatious. A crest or a crown. Not a massive great pole that served no practical purpose.

The gruesome procession split around the Prime's throne, taking up positions flanking him and settling down to watch over proceedings with the solemn dignity of eroding statues.

“This Council is in session,” Sentinel announced, his voice echoing through the hall, “Praise the Allspark. Hail the Flame.”

“Praise the Allspark,” came the refrain, “Hail the Prime.”

His duty done, he sat. And seemed almost to switch off, becoming still and somehow removed from events. An irrelevance, there only because he had always been there.

Emirate Traachon of Iacon rose. Here then was where it truly began. Ceremony and public opinion had been appeased. Time for more serious matters.

 

* * *

Traachon spoke for several deca-cycles, laying out exactly where a war between Vos and Tarn would lead and offering the mediators' preferred solutions for consideration. He spoke well, with feeling, channelling all the frustration, desperation and fear the situation had caused, while still managing to stay calm and reasonable. Do not break the unity and peace that Cybertron has enjoyed for thousands of stellar-cycles, he implored. Do not turn on your brothers when there is another way.

The moment Lord Taynset signalled Sarristec to take the floor in response, Xaaron knew it had all been for nothing.

It was the same swaggering figure he had seen so often in the propaganda broadcasts, the embodiment of forward-looking Vos. All smooth lines and oiled movements, wealth and power wrapped in cobalt and crimson, smaller in real life but no less charismatic. Contempt flowed off Sarristec's wings like rain. His speech was full of respectful words for the Council, the Circuit-Masters and the Prime but they rang hollow amidst a landslide of Vosian nationalism. Vos had never been the aggressor, came the old cry, it had always acted to protect its people, to build its future, to inspire a better Cybertron. If the Inter-State Accords needed to be bent out of shape to achieve Vos' goals, ran the subtext, that was their failing. Let all change to suit Vos because Vos' aspirations should be those of all peoples.

Familiar rhetoric, delivered with passion and without irony. Perhaps the elegant young jet really believed what he was saying. Perhaps he said it because he knew his power depended on others believing it. Whatever the case, he gave ground to neither opponents nor moderators. Vos was right and that was the end of it.

Xaaron had to turn his face aside to hide his frustration. Had he known, deep down, that the talks would be simply another round of argument? The same tired old lines delivered by fresh players? He had hoped beyond hope that the two sides would come inspired to find a rational, sane way out of the trap into which they were driving themselves. He had hoped they would be able to at least  _see_ the trap and want to escape it, no matter what their pride told them.

But here was Lord Sarristec prating and posturing, pouring his spark into slogans and sound-bites, allowing no concessions and no room for debate. He was absurd, regaling the High Council with election rally propaganda. And he was terrifying because he was the face that Vos wished turned towards the whole world, here where the future of the planet lay in the balance.

Opposite, Viilon sat listening, head slightly tilted at exactly the right angle to indicate he was doing so attentively. When Dionnat had told him that the governor was the only member of the Tarnian delegation on his way to the Council Chamber, it had filled Xaaron with dread. Tarn as a single implacable monolith: the image that the Vosians held up at every turn as the reason everyone else should fear their old foe.

The last thing Xaaron wanted was for the rest of the Council to look on Tarn as the threat Vos told them it was and react accordingly. There were many things wrong with Tarn but bitter experience told him trying to level the city would solve none of them.

Sarristec's monologue extolling the righteousness of his city and the barbarity of its neighbour slowed to a conclusion that would have no doubt raised a cheer from the people who had elected him into power. The Council greeted it with strained silence and averted gazes. Many among those representing Vos' allies and trading partners looked uncomfortable now, far more so than they had at the start. Maybe they too were appalled at the unflinching stance their masters were taking.

“We respectfully attest,” Sarristec finished with a graceful bow to those before him, “that Vos will have no part in any resolution that infringes on our right to self-determination and the improvement of our nation, within our boundaries and within the sparks of our citizens, that is the right and privilege of every Cybertronian ignited in the light of the Matrix.”

He resumed his seat amid a flurry of activity. Every comm-channel in the room jammed with frantic chatter between the delegates, Emirates and city leaders babbling to one another while trying to maintain a façade of polite consideration of Vos' position.

Xaaron pressed his fingertips together, half-shuttered his optics, looked across at Viilon and braced himself for whatever was going to come next.

 

* * *

Lord Taynset gave the slightest of nods and the smallest of smiles. Sarristec returned the nod and sat back with a feeling of immense satisfaction. The optics of the room were upon him still, the Council and all those city-states fixated on Vos' glory.

It was good. It was a triumph.  _He_ had been the one to stand before them and show that his people would not be bowed or pressured or cajoled into being something they were not.  _He_ had carried the Vosian standard and planted it before the Prime himself. His ascendancy among the Conclave was assured with that single speech. No one would dare contest his right to stand beside Lord Taynset. And perhaps, one day, far into the future, when the Conclave required a new leader –

Viilon stood and the room grew still. For one uncontrolled instant, Sarristec was almost painfully envious of how easily the hulking purple cyol commanded the attention of everyone present. But of course that was down to fear, not respect or statecraft. Like all Tarnians, the only way for him to interact with the wider world was to try and intimidate it.

That unwavering optic lifted to stare directly at the Prime, as if he were the only important part of the proceedings and the mediators and the Council and the delegations were irrelevant. The old fool that Iacon had elected as their Emirate made a token attempt to regain control of the situation, getting up as well and offering a belated invitation to Viilon to make his address. He was fooling no one.

Viilon continued to stare at the Prime. “Under my leadership,” he began flatly, “Tarn has always acted within the bounds of the treaties that ratified its foundation and within the accords that created the union between Cybertron's many states. Each city has the right to determine its own form of government and to be bound by the operations of that government without external interference. Each city is permitted to improve its infrastructure, to exercise its code of justice and to pursue its social, technological and economic advancement free of external interference. And each city has the right to call on the assistance of its neighbours for support where its own internal institutions are deemed to have failed it. Whatever contradictions these principals create, Tarn has adhered to them. Within those boundaries, it has become ordered and prosperous and has created stability for its neighbours. Tarn has been responsible for fifty-seven deep-space expeditions, forty-nine of which have culminated in the exploitation of resource-rich worlds for the good of Cybertron as a whole. It is now an energon hub that supplies the fuel needs, in whole or in part, for seventy-three separate states.”

The yellow eye contracted, ever so slightly. “Tarn has no need to act aggressively. Tarn has no need to expand beyond the territories it has been allotted. What it has achieved with the resources it commands surpasses the achievements of any state that has attempted to annex, conquer or otherwise place another under its dominion. Many have claimed that the deployment of Tarnian troops in Simfur constitutes the beginning of such an expansion. It does not. Those troops were deployed at the request of legitimately elected members of Simfur society whose statuary right to represent their people was being overridden by a biased and corrupt government in contravention of Article Fifteen of the Inter-State Accords. Tarnian troops remain in place at the request of the properly elected officials to oversee the hand-over of power and the creation of new social and judicial processes. As soon as this is complete, the troops will be withdrawn. This is not a plot to seize power over another state. This is the enactment of a duty that all states share under the agreements and treaties that grant them their authority.”

Now, at last, Viilon's head swung round to look at the Vosian delegation. Directly, it seemed to Sarristec, at him. He quailed under the blank, impersonal stare. Rationally, he knew that he was in no danger, that there was zero actual possibility of the hulking purple monster striking him down then and there. It made no difference to the overwhelming urge to flee, to fly away as fast as he could and not look back.

“In response to the statements made by other city-states that have misinterpreted or chosen to ignore Tarn's intentions, it has been deemed necessary to implement defensive policies. Military operations have already been carried out to secure Tarn's borders against external threats and to prevent its closest allies from being targeted by extremist elements. Security levels have been raised throughout Tarnian territory and travel within Tarn will be restricted until further notice. In addition, I will now make clear certain facts about Tarn's front-line defences in order to deter any rash action on the part of those willing to escalate their irrational fear of Tarn into aggressive action. First – Tarn's borders and airspace are protected by a sensor grid of unparalleled sensitivity incorporating cutting-edge technology developed by myself and the upper cadre of the Tarnian scientific elite. This sensor grid can detect, triangulate and pinpoint for destruction any object that enters without prior authorisation. In addition, it can track back and identify the origin of any such object within zero-point-zero-seven-four hix. Second – should any attack succeed in breaching the outer defence perimeter, automatic systems will lock on to the point of origin of said attack and commence a proportional counterstrike up to and including the launching of photonic-warhead missiles capable of obliterating the infrastructure of any city on Cybertron's surface. Third – advanced weapons systems incorporated into Tarn's long-range weapon stockpiles include anti-countermeasure functions that have a ninety-eight percent chance of fully neutralising any attempt to defend against such a counterstrike.”

The Council chamber rang with silence. No one spoke or moved or dared to take their optics off Viilon for a single instant. Sarristec was sure he felt several important pumps stalling deep within his superstructure. In a flat, emotionless monotone, his voice devoid of any overt anger or menace, the High Governor of Tarn had just threatened every city of Cybertron with utter annihilation if they lifted a finger against him. The shock of it was matched only by the utter horror of realising that he meant every word and, moreover, was coldly certain that he was fully capable of carrying that threat out.

In all his life, Sarristec could not remember ever once being threatened with death. Disgrace yes, poverty occasionally, pain perhaps, but never death. Never the end of his existence and the end of everything he knew. He had absolutely no idea how to respond. This wasn't a political exercise. There was no rhetoric in Viilon's words and he was not taking an extreme position for the sake of negotiating down to a reasonable settlement. This was absolute intent, with no attempt to evade or dissemble or covert the support of others.

It was utterly terrifying.

“Given these facts,” Viilon added as a perfunctory conclusion to his grotesque mockery of a speech, “continued attempts to advance an aggressive policy with regard to Tarn would be highly illogical.” And with that, he sat down, as perfectly composed as when he came in.

Emirate Traachon got up again, visibly shaking. But to Sarristec's astonishment, it was an enraged Lord Omnitron who spoke first, surging from his seat and radiating righteous fury. “How dare Tarn!” he rasped, tracks shifting and snarling, “How dare this unelected tyrant stand here and attempt to intimidate us into doing as he says! How dare he twist every letter of the law to try and justify his unrepentant interference in Simfur! Attack him, he says, and he will respond a thousand-fold! Well know this,  _Governor Shockwave_ – Vos stands ready for you! We have our own sensor nets and our own defences and the first Tarnian soldier to set tread or wheel or foot on Vosian ground will unleash the full might of those defences against his masters! You threaten us but we  _promise_ you that for every Pit-forsaken weapon you use to kill Vosians, a hundred more will fall upon you!”

Utter chaos erupted the instant Omnitron stopped speaking. Traachon called for order and a dozen other Emirates shouted him down. Violent outbursts were screamed from every corner of the room, declarations of opposition and support mingling in a thundering, unintelligible mass of noise. The Prime's spear struck the floor but was drowned by the pounding of delegates' feet and the flapping of their wings and the revving of their engines.

Sarristec wanted to throw his hands over his audio receptors and seal off his optics and only the vestiges of decorum kept him from doing so. He knew he should be joining in the fray, should be adding his voice to Omnitron's and venting Vos' anger until it echoed above the rest. Yet he was frozen, lost for words and caught in inaction, unable to move or speak. All he could do was watch the conference dissolve out of all semblance of civilisation until only two points of stillness remained untouched.

Viilon, whose gaze moved slowly from face to face, as if assessing the abstract results of some vaguely uninteresting experiment.

And Lord Taynset, who looked from Omnitron to Viilon and to the room at large and smiled the smallest of smiles.

 


	9. Falling Stars

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

With a growing sense of dread, Optrion watched yet another Vosian troop transport set down and begin offloading a column of mechs and supplies. They were coming every few hecta-cycles now, streaking out from the centre of the city to drop sharply down behind one of the hundreds of forward positions that had been set up along the border. There seemed to be no end to Vos' army – and worse, no end to the Tarnian soldiers lining up to oppose them.

Which was more than could be said about the Defence Directorate forces expected to keep peace between them.

“ _So, you want to go stand between them and shout 'stop' now or shall we wait for someone to actually start shooting?”_ Bentwing dead-panned. He was hovering maybe a hix up and seven to the north of Optrion's position, just far back enough from the border for neither side's sensors to be worrying about him.

“ _At this point, would that do any good?”_

“ _At this point, how can it make anything worse?”_

“ _Good point,”_ Optrion agreed, _“I wish I could think of something that wouldn't.”_

The peace conference had done nothing to stem the build-up. Both armies had continued to pour into battle-ready formations, almost absurd in how inexhaustible they seemed. Combined, Megatron and Vieuxuun's battalions numbered maybe seven hundred if you included the support crews as well as the combatants. Vos and Tarn had already committed well over a hundred times as many troops and showed no sign of stopping. At some point, logically, there had to be an end to it. Given how deep the pride and enmity of the two cities ran, Optrion fully expected them to have emptied their streets down to the substrata before either admitted to being the first to be unable to bring more soldiers to the front.

The Defence Directorate had pulled a dozen battalions off other duties ready for the inevitable worst but they remained on standby, unable to move in without the backing of a High Council that was to all appearances in the middle of tearing itself apart. Everyone from the pundits down had gone from wondering what would happen if a war began to wondering how long it would be until it did. According to Ironhide, only the crazy money was on anything longer than a quartex.

“ _Maybe we should just start praying to Primus and be done with it,”_ Bentwing suggested, veering west, _“That's the traditional way of dealing with lost causes isn't it? Invoke Primus and wait for the ground to open up and give us a mighty sword of light or reformat us all into demi-Primes.”_

“ _It worked for Solus Prime,”_ Optrion replied, forcing himself to try for a joke.

“ _Wasn't he the one who declared war on the colour blue?”_

“ _That was Polemaarchos. Widely considered to be the counter-argument to the divinity of the Primes.”_

“ _Ah, right. Good to know. I'd hate to die in the cross-fire with an incomplete knowledge of theology.”_

He barrel-rolled and flared his thrusters. _“I'll see you back at camp. Need to complete the circuit. Have fun crawling the ground, Commander.”_

“ _Good flying, Commander.”_

Optrion watched the jet arc away and quickly become lost among the hundreds of other energy signatures filling the night sky. Rolling down the slope, dutifully logging the progress of the squads he had dispatched on patrol, his thoughts turned back to the sheer hopelessness of it all. As futile as it undoubtedly was, a good part of him really did want to drive straight between the two armies and yell at them to turn back. How could anyone be party to such insanity? How could they not see what they were doing, the chaos and destruction they were on the brink of unleashing?

Nationalistic pride. Anger at crimes committed by the long dead. Unreasoning hate that did not respond to reasoned argument, that did not even see that there was a reasoned argument to be had.

It was not about territory, it was barely even about defending their borders from outsiders. All those soldiers could see was the despised enemy at the other end of their guns, aiming back, a target to be destroyed because it represented everything they insisted they were not. Never mind the blameless who would suffer because of it. Never mind that the enemy thought exactly the same. Kill or be killed, attack or be attacked. Fight for your flag because it's not the other one. And in the end, it would all be for nothing. Or it would start all over again and in another hundred thousand stellar-cycles there would be another war and millions more would perish because of a line on a map.

Optrion gunned his engine that little bit harder and swerved violently out on to the road back to the encampment.

If only he could show them what he saw.

 

* * *

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“Can't we at least keep the noise down?”

Xaaron twitched with irritation at Traachon's plaintive cry. Beside them, the red and silver guardsfeme retained her steely composure but there was a new edge to her voice when she answered. “If you would like to go out and ask them to leave, Emirate, I will be happy to give you a full armed escort. Unfortunately, as it is, they are have the right to make as much noise as they want.”

A right the crowd that had occupied the Triumphant Steps were exercising to its utmost, sending chants and cries up to echo through the Temple corridors with ever increasing fervour. When Xaaron glanced down through the windows that lined the Thunder Gallery, he could see a seething mass of protesters washing up and down like the tide, banners and placards and towering holo-projections pushing the very limits of what the security forces would let them get away with. There were the pro-Tarnians and the pro-Vosians, the pro-Council supporters and the neo-Anarchists, the Free-Fuelers and the Caste Fanatics, and a dozen more factions besides. Some of those present did not seem able to chose which manifesto to cheer for and were just locking on to whichever took their fancy at any one moment. Others were so passionate about their causes it was a wonder they were not exploding from sheer zealousness. Harassed members of Red Watch haunted the edges of the fray, making an effort to contain it but little else. Though they were hidden from his view by the architecture, Xaaron knew the Temple Guard were doing their famed impression of a wall in front of the entrance itself, no doubt hoping against hope that their impassive appearance would be enough to discourage those who longed to try something reckless.

It was loud and chaotic and utterly and completely irrelevant.

“Thank you for your time, Elita,” he said firmly before Traachon could make any further complaints, “We must not detain you from your duties any longer.”

The tall feme gave a stiff bow and marched away, a pair of equally massive guardsmechs falling in behind her.

Traachon had the decency to look embarrassed. “I'm sorry, but I am finding it so hard to concentrate with all _that_ going on.” He waved vaguely at the windows.

“Funny. I find the imminent obliteration of two of Cybertron's most populous cities focusses my mind wonderfully.”

“I know, I am sorry!” Traachon repeated, flinging up his arms. His face collapsed into gloom and despondency. “How could it have gone so wrong? They cannot possibly want a war!”

“They want to _not lose_ a war. Everything else is irrelevant. So we need to explore other options.”

“What is there left to explore? Xaaron, we have tried everything –”

“No. Not yet. There are still the corporations. The trader guilds. The Defence Directorate. If we could get enough backing for an intervention or an arms limitation pact –”

“ _Xaaron_!” Traachon put a hand on Xaaron's arm, forcing him to slow down. “Please. We may have to accept the inevitable.” He cast blindly around for some scrap of good news. “Or perhaps now, when they see how close they are coming to disaster, the moderates will find their voice. Surely they must?” And this seemed to buoy his mood, a sliver of genuine hope filtering into his voice.

“Which moderates would those be?” Xaaron demanded harshly, shaking his friend off violently, “The Tarnian moderates who have no say in how their city is run? Or the Vosian moderates who have no say in who runs their city?”

The look of hurt that had replaced the hope was supplanted in turn by one of confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do you mean, what do I –” He broke off and stared sharply at Traachon. “You haven't heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

 

* * *

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

Sarristec stepped down from the shuttle with a feeling of immense relief. The flight back, cooped up, unable to properly stretch his wings, had been abominable. Ever since the conference had broken down, he had been straining under the need to remain collected and hold up Vos' flag. They had the moral high ground, he told himself. Among a fractured, confused council, only Vos saw the way clear and only Vos would be willing to stand up to Viilon's threats. That was what they had to show the world. That was what Sarristec had to believe. Because it had to be true. It was ludicrous to think otherwise and it would be fatal weakness to admit that it _could_ be otherwise and besides, it _was_ true. Any fool could see that. Vosian superiority was self-evident to all right-thinking mechs and only pride kept others from seeing it. Eventually, the other states would see past their own limitations and side against the threat of Tarn's barbarism. One way or another they would have no choice.

And then Sarristec remembered Viilon's calculated certainty, his cold warnings and brutal honesty.

Taynset stepped down beside him, folding his wings tidily behind his back and tilting his head slightly in quiet thought. Back in the Council Chamber, the blue mech had risen to cut through the hubbub with a few carefully chosen words. Omnitron's passion had got the better of him, he had said. Vos deplored the use of violence and acted only to defend itself. Threats could not be ignored but equally, war could never be welcomed. As long as the Council sought a peaceful solution, they would have Vos' support. It was deeply unfortunate however, Taynset had concluded, that Tarn did not share this spirit of cooperation and, with regret, until they did, Vos would be unable to enter into negotiations with them. He had swept from the room without looking back, quiet and masterful amidst the storm of protest. With that one act, he had proven Vos' restraint and unwillingness to compromise their principals, had shown that they would not give in to threats and that they were, ultimately, the only side any Cybertronian could support.

And then Sarristec remembered that little smile Taynset had given when Omnitron had begun the frenzy, so brief it might have been a trick of the light.

He needed time to think, away from the media and the pressures of office. Time to muster his thoughts into coherence and work out what he should do. The chance to power down and let his processors cool.

All luxuries he was unlikely to enjoy. Taynset had been nothing but complimentary about his performance before the Council and had impressed on him how important he was as the face of the Vosian cause. Omnitron would have to step back for a while, Taynset had confided. Too much passion there, with too little control. But Sarristec, well, Sarristec knew how to shape his message to his audience. Sarristec was who the media expected to see and in him, they saw all of Vos. Taynset would be relying on him more than ever before. In many ways, the elder Lord admitted, Sarristec would have to bear the burden of being the voice of the Conclave, a burden he knew the younger jet would carry with aplomb.

Sarristec forced himself to modestly accept the trust being placed in him, no matter how much the thought of it now made him want to scream. It was not as if he really had much choice.

The sight of the Conclave and its attendants assembled to greet them did not improve his mood one jot. The last thing he wanted was to face his peers when his mind was fizzing with uncertainty. There they were though, lined up to welcome the delegation home. Such was his preoccupation that he did not immediately notice that something was off. It only dawned on him slowly that the group was not arranged as it should be, that there were too many guards, that Taynset's diminutive grey attendant had taken an unusually prominent position –

The grey mech stepped forward to greet Taynset before any of the Lords and Sarristec realised that something was seriously wrong.

Taynset listened with concern to his flunky, then cast an optic towards one of the two groups into which the Conclave had been split. Vvnet was there, backed by Geneion, Telmuruus and half a dozen others. The bulk of the guards had them surrounded, energy-pikes angled inward.

“My friends,” said Taynset gravely, “I do not quite believe what I am being told. It is a betrayal. There is no other word for it.”

“It was a vote of no confidence,” Vvnet growled back, arms folded. “A vote of no confidence in your leadership,” she clarified, louder, unashamed.

“While I was not present to contest it. While I was distracted by issues of state. That is not a vote, my Lord Vvnet. That is a coup.”

The feme's optics were slits. “You are taking us into a war we cannot possibly win! You may have dazzled your little collection of shooting stars and old fools into thinking this is going to be glorious but some of us can see things as they really are.” Her voice rose, loud and clear, carrying right across the landing pad. “Lord Taynset is leading us into destruction! We will gain nothing from open conflict with Tarn and will lose our credibility with all those we consider allies! If any of you have any shred of true patriotism in you, you will help us stop this before it is too late!”

Everyone looked nervously at everyone else. No one dared move, much less speak. Sarristec was rooted to the spot, afraid to twitch lest it be interpreted the wrong way. He was uncomfortably aware of the grey mech's optics scanning lazily to and fro. There was something extremely unpleasant behind that bland stare.

Taynset hummed sadly and shook his head. “This is most regrettable,” he said softly “Most regrettable. You are the last people I would have expected to abandon their principals for political greed. And to do so when we need your support the most. I am sorry. I truly am. I see no choice but to have you removed from the Conclave pending an investigation into this most unfortunate and misguided act. For the sake of the people, you must do this voluntarily and without objection. Perhaps when all this is over we can all re-evaluate our positions. Until then, I pray that you will reflect upon your loyalty to this great city and how far you have allowed yourselves to stray from it.”

Politely yet forcefully, the guards began to move Vvnet's people back into the tower. She fixed Taynset with one last vicious glare before jerking her head aside and marching away, stiff, straight backed, wearing her contempt like a cloak.

 

* * *

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

“ _Whatever authority the Civic Guard had in the Qosho region, it has now evaporated.”_ Deca Magnus said it with angry resignation. Even through a hologram, bitter powerlessness radiated from him. _“We just don't have the resources on the ground to help you. The most we could offer would be disaster relief afterwards.”_

“ _We have the troops to intervene but we have no pretext to send them in.”_ Viktoleo flicked invisible dust dismissively from the yellow plates on his forearm. _“Unless anyone thinks Vos and Tarn will take kindly to training exercises right outside their territory?”_

“ _There are Air Guardians and heavy transports lining up to volunteer for a rapid deployment mission,”_ Deftwing countered, _“The instant the word is given, they'll be in the air.”_

“I hope they will be disappointed,” Vieuxuun quipped, lightly adjusting the tactical display, “The build-up remains steady and there is no sign of any movement towards cross the border from either side. And with the Council still in session –”

“The Council remains in session because it is being torn in three different directions,” Megatron snapped, frustration too great to be held in check any longer. His fingers ground against his palms. Day after day they went through the same charade, making empty plans and longing for support they did not have while the politicians busied themselves a mockery of their every last effort. “Is there no way we can bypass them?” he demanded, “There must be some grounds for bringing in a larger force.”

Everyone turned to look at Supreme Commander Grandus, who shook his head ponderously. _“Our mandate is too explicit. Unless there is a clear and imminent danger to Cybertron as a whole, we must have a majority of the Council authorising a Defence Directorate operation.”_

Megatron gestured violently, dashing parts of the tactical map to pixels. “And what is this if not an imminent danger to Cybertron?”

“Commander Megatron, please!” Scandalised, Vieuxuun held up his hands. “Consider what you are saying!”

“ _I think we're all considering it, Field Commander,”_ Grandus rumbled darkly, _“Megatron makes a good point. I will be putting it forcibly to whichever Council members will answer my calls.”_

“ _I will be doing the same with a group of city leaders in three deca-cycles,”_ the Magnus put in, _“With luck I will be able to get their agreement to move Guardsmechs into a better position to assist you. Either that or they'll beg me to send them more white-and-blues in case Vos and/or Tarn tries to annex them.”_

“ _Then until we do this again tomorrow.”_ Viktoleo touched his crest. _“Primus-In-Many-Forms smile on us all.”_

The holograms winked out one by one and Megatron rested his fists on the projector table. He remembered once when he had been very young listening to a fan-winged avir preach the Primal Creed. Over the din of a packed market place, he had recited the Covenants to a knot of apathetic mechs and told them that their lives were sacred things that they were privileged to have, that they were all part of a whole greater than they could conceived, that Primus' spark existed in all of them and should be cherished. The avir had been convinced, it seemed, that everything was part of a single divine machine and whatever suffering was endured by the components of that machine, the end was worth it. Ultimately, Primus would bring all the children of Cyberton back to the Allspark.

Megatron wondered what the sanctimonious bird would have thought had he seen the map with its neat lines of killers waiting impatiently to be unleashed. Was this part of Primus' plan too? At the time, barely scratching an existence in Tarn's over-crowded factory districts, those beliefs had seemed the deranged optimism of the truly desperate. Now they were laughable.

If Primus truly cared for the children of Cyberton, there would be a wall of peacekeepers between Vos and Tarn sixty hix high.

Instead, the only thing there was a token gesture and a smouldering pile of deranged optimism.

 

* * *

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“The Brixian Bulletin is asking for a quote, my Lord, and there has been a request for you to attend an emergency meeting of the Union Committee to be held tomorrow. You could make it, however it would mean delaying the tour of the Avenix Plaza Archive's deep defence chambers by a hecta-cycle. And I have finished compiling those statistics your requested. They have been uploaded to your personal database.”

The bronze attendant, who had not stopped prattling on since the Conclave had dispersed, finally shut up. Such was his preoccupation that it took Sarristec a good two micro-cycles to absorb the silence and several more to respond appropriately. “Thank you . . . erm . . . Zacarii. Give them the generic line about confidence in the crisis. And decline the invitation. The Archive's more important than a collection of – than the Unions. Give my apologies. Tell them I am working to ensure their prosperity.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And from now on, I will not be making any public appearances that are not absolutely essential to the war effort. I don't have time to deal with petty engagements!”

“War effort, my Lord?”

Sarristec looked around sharply, cursing his ill-chosen words. Zacarii's uninspired features were pulled into a perplexed frown. Everyone might be expecting a war, might know full well just how close it was, but you sure as Pit did not go around saying so. “The effort to avoid a war. I meant – I said, the effort to avoid a war.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The attendant composed himself back into respectful unobtrusiveness. “Will you be requiring my services further this evening, my Lord?”

“What? No. No I won't. Thank you. You're dismissed.”

“Very good, my Lord.”

Zacarii glided away, displaying no evidence whatever of the burdens of office and state. Naturally. _He_ wasn't the one expected to bear them, was he? All he had to do was take messages and oil the cogs of government. A simple life for a simple mind. Typical of those who could not lead themselves.

Safe inside his office, the door sealed against the world, Sarristec collapsed into his chair like a heap of disconnected spares. Head lolling, he let out a slow grinding moan. There was so much to be done and yet he did not have the will to do it. The Conclave were relying on him to be the face they turned to the world. The much-reduced Conclave. The Conclave that hardly dared voice anything other than total support for Lord Taynset.

No! He could not afford to think like that. Taynset knew what he was doing. He had led Vos for hundreds of stellar-cycles and it was his hands that had dragged a city that had languished in decadence up into a position of power and influence, his hands that had shaped it into a shining beacon of the future, his hands that had brought them to the brink of –

“What statistics?” 

Jerked clean out of his line of thought, Sarristec stared dumbly at his desk. The statistics he had asked for. That was what whatever-his-name-was had said. But Sarristec could not remember asking for any statistics. Certainly not recently, certainly not since he had returned from Iacon. He had been far too busy for research. Media appearances alone had consumed almost all of the time not spent in the Conclave chamber.

Some stupid mistake? Obviously the attendant had blundered. Except when Sarristec checked the order log, he found an entry requesting a download of statistics for the import of self-actuating stark bolts from Kalis over the past mega-cycle. Which was, to his certain knowledge, a topic in which no one had the slightest interest, least of all him.

And yet there the order was and there was the data, dutifully downloaded for his perusal.

Paranoia, fuelled by too much stress and too little rest, kicked in immediately. Was it a viral bomb, primed to frag his consciousness into random code? A spy program designed to lure him in and duplicate all his innermost secrets for public dispersal? A crank propaganda burst ready to incriminate him in some crazy plot to bring about religious reform? If he had been thinking straight, he would have immediately called security and gotten a viral disposal officer to come in and deal with it. Instead, he just sat there and fretted, rolling one disastrous scenario after another around his mind.

A state of affairs that was cut short when the data package unwound itself and snaked into the nearest holo-projector.

Sarristec stumbled from his chair as an image of Vvnet winked into existence before him. She looked as worn and tired as he felt, her optics dimmed and her fins flattened to her body. When she spoke, though, it was with a degree of command he could not recall her ever possessing before. _“Don't cry out.”_

His vocaliser seized up half-way through forming a shocked exclamation. Quite without intending to, he clamped his mouth tight shut.

The hologram put its hands on its hips. _“You're probably surprised to see me. If there is something capable of thought in that pretty frame of yours, it's probably wondering how I've managed to get this message out of house arrest. Let's just say that Taynset is not as all seeing as he likes to imagine he is. Now. I don't have long and you don't have a very great attention span so let me make this quick: high and mighty_ my Lord Taynset _is going to destroy us all and, Primus help every one of us, you are the only one left who has a chance of stopping him.”_

A faint squeak escaped Sarristec's mouth.

“ _The truth is,”_ Vvnet went on, _“you are the most obnoxious, conceited, self-serving, self-deluding attention seeker it has ever been my misfortune to meet. Which means that if someone is about to cause you harm, you will turn on them like a cornered turbo-fox.”_ She shifted her stance, leaning back a little. _“So I want you to consider very carefully what is happening. Even to you, it must be obvious by now. He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us. Taynset is using you to further his own agenda and once he is done with you, you will be tossed aside.”_ A brittle smile crossed her face. _“My use to him was at an end when he realised I couldn't be pushed into going along with his big plan. And you're probably thinking that's a reason to be a good little jet and do as you're told. But as I said, even to you it must be obvious that whatever Taynset hopes to get out of all this, he is going to drag us down to the Pit with him. You think we'll be safe from Tarn because of our missile grid? You think that'll stop Viilon flattening every spire to powder? Taynset is going to kill us all and he needs to be stopped.”_

Vvnet's dismissive air was completely gone now. She was looking at him – though of course she wasn't really – with a kind of intense desperation, as if trying to make him do what she wanted through transmitted force of will. _“You can stop him,”_ she said quietly, _“He's done his work too well with you. You're adored, a symbol of the nation, the pride of Vos itself. Speak out! Speak out now and condemn him, as publicly as possible. Use that stirring voice of yours, appeal to the sparks of the Vosian people, say whatever it takes but get people doubting! Get them to see the mech behind the mech for what he truly is! Bring all those shadow dealings out into the open! And if we're lucky, we might just avoid extinction. And you –”_ Then hologram jabbed a finger straight at him. _“You might just live to get another coat of enamel. Go on, shooting star. Time to save yourself!”_

The image snapped off as abruptly as it had appeared.

Sarristec sunk slowly to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

 


	10. Diplomacy by Another Means

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

“The motion that a contingent of Defence Directorate observers be sent in to oversee a bilateral scale down in the military build-up is…” Traachon paused, perhaps in desperate hope that the outcome of the vote would change if he strung the announcement out long enough. “…defeated.”

This barely caused a stir among the rest of the Council. Graviitus became a little more smug, Haacano a little less tense. Both quickly returned to mutual animosity, metaphorically gathering their strength for the next argument.

Not that it would really be much of an argument. Whatever semblance of formal debate remained was squandered on the minutiae of proposals that were inevitably shot down by one or both of the factions. Those factions were, admittedly, dwindling in size. A number of states had visibly jettisoned their allegiance to Vos or Tarn in favour of more self-evidently stable allies. This did little to shift the balance of power in the Council, however, since by the same reasoning none of them wished to oppose their former partners.

Xaaron folded his hands together and shuttered his optics. Endless notes and reports filled his mind. At a glance, he could track the interplay of political alignments, the movement of the trading markets, the distribution of planetary defence forces, the latest sporting results from the Protihexian orbital tracks – anything and everything that might influence the next few days. And behind it all, behind all the background noise of a planet trying to go about its ordinary business, real-time updates from the Vos/Tarn border hovered like some vast avian predator – the only thing in the whole mass of information that really, truly mattered.

The future of Cybertron balanced on that thin strip of land. Thousands of hix away, safe inside Iacon's golden walls, the Council sat and bickered. On the front, peering anxiously out of his barricade or over the top of his gunnery platform, some young soldier was becoming impatient. Some commander was hoping that the enemy would make a move so she could prove her mettle. Someone, somewhere, was ready to snap.

Haacano was beginning another call for the Vosians to retreat. To Xaaron's eyes, he was looking increasingly desperate. Even if he supported the governor's policies, he clearly appreciated just how poorly Viilon's speech had been received. It was just unfortunate that his defensiveness translated to increasing displays of exasperation and hostility, to the point where, if he had stood up and accused Vos of stealing energy-boosters from protoforms, it would not have come as a great surprise.

Graviitus meanwhile was glowing with smugness and the satisfaction of someone who knows he just has to let his opponent keep talking to win, an assumption that was having more or less the same effect as the Tarnian threats of retaliation. No one could be sure what Vos would do to those who did not accept its righteousness and no one was in a hurry to find out.

Round and round they went, saying much and going nowhere. Xaaron's head filled with memories of burning towers and burning mechs. In his chest, he felt again the twisting blow of a bomb-burst, the shock wave of a detonation so close it scoured the armour from his back. He saw friends and enemies alike disappearing beneath the rubble. He tasted the stench of smoke and ignited fuel.

Haacano was railing against Vosian arrogance. Graviitus was scoffing at Tarnian belligerence.

And they. Would. Not. Stop.

“Enough!”

 

* * *

 

**The Palace of Law**

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

“Come in, my Lord Sarristec. I've been expecting you.” Taynset was standing by the windows, optics turned to the sea of minarets. He had a goblet of high-grade energon in his hand, half-raised to his mouth.

Sarristec froze on the threshold. All of a sudden the elegant office and the elegant mech within seemed awfully like a trap waiting to be sprung. Every sense was screaming at him to get out of there, to turn and run before it was too late.

Why? Nothing had changed, had it? There was nothing more sinister in Lord Taynset's appearance than there had been on so many past visits. This was the inner sanctum, the place of true power in Vos but that was where Sarristec belonged. Taynset had as much as said so. Hadn't he?

Forcing his legs to function properly, he stepped inside and walked slowly towards the windows. The door slid silently shut behind him and then the room was a box, locked tight. No way in. No way out.

His feet were like blocks of lead, awkward and unwieldy. Taynset had not even turned to look at him yet Sarristec felt as if he was at the centre of a packed arena, a million people staring at him. Not adoring or cheering his every word, just...staring. When he threw a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the grey flunky standing quietly in the corner, his fuel pump nearly gave out in fright. He turned his head quickly away, wishing the mad wish that no one was there.

After an eternity of faltering steps, he was at Taynset's side. The blue flyer still did not look at him. The goblet hovered where it was, motion arrested before its time.

“My Lord.” Sarristec bowed and flashed a humble smile. “Forgive the intrusion. There is a matter of some urgency I must bring to your attention. I have...that is to say, certain files have been forced upon me. I fear that...which is to say, I am concerned that there are factions within Vos that are continuing to –”

“Vvnet,” Taynset said, lifting the energon and sipping it at last, “Yes. I know.”

“Ah.” Panic was creeping into Sarristec's processors now. The panic of not knowing where one stood, of not knowing the right answer. “Well, naturally I had to bring it to your attention. That there was a risk that these foul lies could escape into the public sphere, that I could have been – that she could have tried to make me act against you – the very idea that I could even begin to contemplate doing what she suggested – I had to come to you immediately so that we could stop this before it –”

Slowly, Taynset turned and looked him full in the face. His ruby optics glowed hypnotically, polished crest reflecting some of the sunset outside. “You came because you had to confront me,” he explained, as one might explain gravity, “Because your ego would not allow you to do anything else. My Lord Sarristec must be the one to face the accused and persuade himself of innocent or guilt. My Lord Sarristec could never take the word of another or accept that his every success may have been engineered for the ambitions of another.” He lifted the goblet again, tilting it in ironic salute. “My Lord Sarristec is obviously the centre of the universe.”

Dumbfounded, Sarristec tried to voice some sort of protest, managing a few spluttering syllables that Taynset cut off with a waved hand. He moved to his desk and set the goblet down gently. Another brief gesture summoned a flock of holograms, abstract diagrams and readouts that Sarristec was too stunned to make any sense of. The High Lord of Vos settled himself in his chair, wings flapping once.

“It is always the same,” he said, apparently to the holograms, “They never can see past their own pretensions. They always assume that they are favoured because they are special.”

“Special?” Sarristec repeated, then louder, “Pretensions?!” Much to his own surprise, he sounded angry. “What are you talking about?” He _was_ angry. How dare Taynset sit there and – “I am a Lord of Vos! Do you have any idea of how hard I worked to get where I am?! I was elected on my merits! I _earned_ this position!”

“Perhaps,” Taynset conceded, “but only because I allowed it.”

“Allowed it?!”

“Yes.” The blue mech pressed the tips of his fingers together. “This is my city. It has been for a very long time. Nothing of any significance happens here without my permission.”

“The Conclave rules Vos! The Elite! We are the few who speak for the many, we are the ones who lead our people –”

Softly, Taynset began to laugh.

Infuriated by the sound, Sarristec lurched forward a few steps. A movement on the edge of his vision brought him up sharply. The grey mech in the corner nodded once and sank back into a neutral stance, the long-nosed blaster vanishing back into his arm. Sarristec stood very still, mid-stride, all his anger transformed into joint-locking terror. “We're not irrelevant...” he managed to say, pathetically, “ _ I _ am not irrelevant...”

“No. No, I suppose not. Within strict limits, you are very relevant.” Taynset shrugged. “You are a voice. An attractive voice, a beautiful, passionate, stirring voice perhaps. But ultimately, that is all you are. That is all I have ever required of you. Every rally, every speech – the words were always be of my choosing.”

“You – you _used_ me?!” _He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us._ That was what Vvnet had said. Maybe he had half-known that she was right, but Sarristec had not believed Taynset would acknowledge it aloud. Had wanted to believe he never would. “You used all of us?”

“Yes.” Blunt. Callous. Honest. A single word to blow apart every last one of Sarristec's dreams.

In that moment, he wanted to kill Taynset more than anything he had ever wanted before in his life.

“Why?” he demanded, taking another step, beyond caring about the consequences, “ _Why_?!”

Taynset's serene expression disintegrated. A sneer warped his face, twisting the mask of quiet wisdom with disgust. “To save Vos once and for all! To make this city greater than any other!”

A map rose out of the holographic cloud, the Qosho region in its entirety spreading out before them. “All of this is ours by right! Yet none of those who came before me were strong enough to claim it! Every concession they made to the Council, every treaty they signed with that festering sink hole of a city – all the weakness they showed – it cost us the glory we should have seized millennia ago! There should be no Tarn! There should only ever have been Vos!” Taynset's fist slammed into his desk. “We became a second-rate power, living in fear of that one-eyed emotionless freak!”

“Buh-but we know that!” Sarristec wailed, “We wanted to take Vos into the future, become the greatest city on the planet – we all wanted that! I wanted that! I've always wanted that!”

“Oh yes.” Taynset's voice dropped back down to a purr. “Oh yes, you want it. You all _want_ it. But not a single one of you was ever prepared to do what was necessary to achieve it.”

“To do...” Uncomprehending, Sarristec leaned closer. “What do you mean? We would have done anything. What weren't we prepared to do?”

“This,” Taynset said and touched a button on the desk.

 

* * *

 

**The Celestial Temple**

**Iacon**

**Cybertron**

 

Xaaron had the Council's full attention. His utter disregard for protocol by actually standing and striding into the middle of the circle guaranteed that. “Enough,” he repeated in a slightly calmer tone, “We have heard these arguments over and over again. We have dissected them, demolished them, resurrected them and reiterated them until they have lost all meaning. This is all just noise! We are achieving nothing! Is this the leadership that Cybertron looks to us for?”

Discontented murmuring rose from the seats around him. He did not let them interrupt him. “In all the mega-cycles I have sat in this chamber, I have never before felt such shame at doing so. We are charged with carrying our city's voices. Each of us represents a government charged, in its turn, with supporting the hopes and wishes of our peoples, with guiding and protecting them and ruling over them with wisdom and respect. What does it say about us, our cities and our people that we are bickering over whether a war should be prevented? Not  _ how _ to prevent it. Not  _ what must be done _ to prevent it. But  _ whether we should stop it at all _ ! Where is the commitment to peace and unity on which this Council was founded? Where is the courage to admit that we have allowed this to go too far and to set about righting our mistakes?”

Graviitus began to speak, as did Haacano and they glared rockets at each other. Emirates of cities still aligned with Vos and Tarn exchanged nervous glances, the aether around them alive with crosstalk and instructions from home.

Xaaron steeled himself and continued. “The truth is that we have already failed. We have allowed ourselves to fall to infighting, to be swayed by – no!” he thundered over the chorus of angry shouts, drowning them by sheer volume, “No! We  _ have _ failed! We failed the moment we did not step back from this brink, the moment we did not unite and say to Tarn and to Vos, no more! We failed when we convinced ourselves that it was better to go along with them than to tell them that we would not stand for their flouting every treaty, every accord and every Covenant in the name of power!”

He looked around slowly, daring any of them to shout him down. None of them moved, not even Graviitus.

“So now I say we have forfeited our authority. We have lost the right to decide what is to be done because we cannot be trusted to do what is right and necessary. But there is one left who _does_ have that right, who _can_ do what is right, who _must_ act when we cannot.” Xaaron turned and reached out his hand to the throne, so long forgotten outside the little political wars. “My Prime. In the name of Cybertron itself and all the children of Primus, I call on you to use your Right of Veto. Command the withdrawal of Vosian and Tarnian troops. Send in the Defence Directorate peacekeepers. Forbid this war, now, before it is too late. In the name of life itself, do what your Council cannot. _Stop this madness_.”

Sentinel did not react at first. His white optics remained distant and his great frame remained still, as if it too were part of the throne and the Temple around him. He did not look up, did not give any indication that he had heard anything that had transpired. Horror mounted within Xaaron as he considered what would happen if his words really had had no effect.

And then the Prime's hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. With monumental solemnity, he rose to his feet, shedding his apathy like breaking ice. Planting his feet and lifting his spear from the floor, his eyes lighting anew with the fire of the Matrix, he spoke, his words filling the chamber as though it were the Temple itself come alive. “The Emirate of Nova Cronum is right. For too long I have sat and watched. There will be no war. Defence Directorate Command!”

Beams of light burst from the walls, weaving a hologram in the air above the circle. Three mechs, the Supreme Commanders of Cybertron's combined military, each staring in astonishment at the image of the Prime. “Commanders,” Prime said, “Hear me –”

An alarm cut him off. Grandus and Deftwing turned away for a moment, looking at something out of the holo-field. When they looked back, one after the other, their faces were grim.  _ “Forgive me, my Prime,”  _ Deftwing said, unnaturally calm,  _ “but please make this quick. Tarnian forces have just crossed the Vos border.” _

 

* * *

**Vos**

**Cybertron**

 

Sarristec watched in utter confusion as icons representing Tarnian tank regiments slid inexorably across the line that divided one city from the other. Taynset merely nodded, as if this was just the final piece of some puzzle sliding neatly into place.

“How...” It was hard to know how to ask the question, let alone contemplate an answer. “How did you do that? How _could_ you do that?!”

Taynset hummed contentedly and smiled slightly. “A Tarnian communications encoder. Stolen from the forces deployed in Simfur under the cover of apparent sabotage. The coding on the transmission was probably not entirely accurate but under the circumstances, that did not matter. Those soldiers were just waiting for an excuse to attack.”

“But –” Sarristec tried to grasp what he was hearing. “You can't have known that would work! Those are trained soldiers – Viilon's soldiers – they're – they wouldn't – you couldn't have just...told them to do what you wanted!”

“It is all a matter of background noise,” Taynset said, tapping his fingers on his knee, “That is something Viilon has never really understood. He can build a perfect society along logical, rational lines, an emotionless city, free of distraction or complication or beauty. But he cannot control what people think. What they believe. What they _feel_. If the Tarnian people are angry, confused, frightened, ready to do anything to protect themselves...why then all the governor's tactical genius and precisely calculated plans are irrelevant. All undone by simple emotion. I just had to create atmosphere in which every Tarnian on that front line would obey any order given to them, so long as it was 'attack'.”

It all slotted together in Sarristec's mind. In an instant, he knew what Taynset had done, as though it had already been explained. As if he had known all along. “The Mahlex District bombing. That...that started all this. That really was your doing?”

“Indirectly. I planted the idea. Gellrauon was pathetically eager to strike a blow against the enemy. Although I will grant that he almost did too good a job. His hired thugs were excellent at covering their tracks. Whisper there had to ensure that they did not properly dispose of one of their victims, to make certain they would be discovered.”

The grey mech in the corner radiated satisfaction without his expression actually changing by more than a minuscule degree. Sarristec moved as far away from him as he dared, backing up against the windows.

“You can't have been sure it would have been found out,” he insisted, “You can't have been sure about anything that happened afterwards! Are you telling me you gambled Vos' future on some crazy scheme to make the Tarnians think we were behind something while it looked to everyone else that we weren't?”

“Crazy?” Taynset seemed to consider the word. “No, I do not believe it could be called 'crazy'. Viilon is essentially predictable. I knew I could trust in his ability to uncover any scheme launched against him so I made a virtue of that. Besides, I had you. Even without that explosion, your oration would have had the most steadfast of Tarnian troopers reduced to rank paranoia.”

Sarristec eyed the map, on which icons on both sides of the border were now writhing about and occasionally disappearing in flashes of casualty numbers. “So what now? You've started a war? Was the plan? Is that what all this has gotten you? Vosians dying at the hands of Tarnians?”

“Not at all.” Taynset smiled again. “All this, as you put it, has gotten me a reason to fulfil our promise.” His face darkened. “For every weapon fired, let a hundred more fall upon them.”

New displays appeared, numbers rapidly scrolling down to zero, range-finders, authorisation codes. On the map, target locks materialised above Tarn.

“No!” Sarristec spun round in horror to see the missiles screaming up into the deepening night, flung high over the western horizon. The first salvo was barely out of sight when a second shot up, then a third, the flights so thick they blotted out the evening stars.

“Don't panic, my Lord Sarristec,” Taynset soothed from behind him, “Our missiles contain enough anti-detection technology that Tarn's defences will not know they are there until they burst on the roof of the Central Processing Hub. Soon all that will be left of Viilon's Logical Revolution will be dust and ashes.”

“No,” Sarristec repeated, remembering when Lord Myyoc had told them about the missiles, about the technology used to hide them from detection, “The Dirvatech baffles. They were used in the bombing. Viilon might have found a way around them!” He looked back at Taynset, imploring him to see the truth. “They'll be detected! Don't you see? They'll be detected before they can destroy Tarn's ability to fire back! They'll fire on us, they'll send missiles back, photon warheads – you've got to stop it! Now! Cancel the attack, detonate the missiles before they hit, it's our only chance!”

But Taynset was not even listening to him any more. He was watching the display with rapt attention, waiting for the explosions that would level Tarn, content that his plans were about to come to pass. And there was 'Whisper', gun extended again, ready to spring forward and prevent any interference.

It was too late anyway. The missiles would already have reached their targets. Yes, there it was, the first bloom of heat and destruction, redrawing the map.

It was too late.

Sarristec transformed, unthinking panic driving him in a way no emotion had ever done so before. He pushed his thrusters as far as they would go, further, until he could feel his internals start to melt, and hurled himself at the windows. The pain of the impact was excruciating but the toughened panes shattered and the tower's defences were all designed to stop outside attack and then there was nothing to stop him.

Free, his engines shrieking in agony, he flew. He flew as fast and hard as he could, blindly, desperate to escape, knowing without a shadow of a doubt he would not.

Somewhere, high above, he imagined he could hear a thin whistling, just audible over the rush of air over his own wings. The whistling of something falling, closer and closer, phenomenally fast.

Then a sound like the sun ripping in half tore the world to cinders and the sky caught fire and all was light.

 


	11. Second Strike

**Defence Directorate Command Platform**

**Vos/Tarn Border**

**Cybertron**

 

Ravage sprang out into the new-born evening and galloped to Megatron's side, head ringing with alarms and warnings. His commander was already issuing orders, voice booming across the camp as, high above on the Kahlian Ridge, gunfire ripped through the darkness.

“Optrion, take the advance force in on wheels and commence rapid strikes on all military targets. Maximum shock charges wherever possible, full-weapons free if necessary.” He put a hand on the red and blue mech's shoulder. “I'm trusting you to do what has to be done.”

The Iaconian saluted quickly, battle-mask sealing over his face. “I won't let you down, sir,” he promised and flipped into truck mode, gunning his engine and racing away, the rest of his troops falling in behind him.

Megatron spun to the flyers and Air Guardians. “Bentwing, Contrail, get your mechs airborne ready to intercept a missile salvo. Go now, while we still have –”

“Stop!”

Vieuxuun stormed down the platform steps gesturing frantically. “Stop this at once! We have no authority! The Council has not –”

“The Council be damned!” Megatron roared, “Bentwing, go – all of you go! Stop those missiles!”

“That is an illegal command!” Vieuxuun shouted, jabbing a finger at the ground. “Anyone who obeys will be breaking their oath as a member of the Defence Directorate!”

“Bentwing, GO!”

The veteran flyer hesitated for a fraction of a micro-cycle, then flung himself into the air, folding into jet form, leaping towards the border –

A single shot punctured his fuselage just behind the nose-cone. The cobalt jet pitched dramatically and plunged back to the ground, striking hard enough to break open. An instant later, a line of fire coursed across his back, his fuel igniting under his skin. His body exploded into flames and thick, acrid smoke.

Those watching were a tableau, Megatron's mouth still open to shout his commands, Contrail halfway transformed, Vieuxuun's particle cannon glowing with the heat of the shot.

Ravage sprang. He slammed into the green Field Commander, claws sinking deep into parade-ground bright armour. His jaws closed around the particle cannon and ripped it free, flinging it away. A single slash of his tail sliced across Vieuxuun's legs, cutting deep, destroying essential mechanisms. They went down hard and Ravage pinned him to the ground, teeth held ready above his face.

“Hold him there!” Megatron bellowed, “Contrail, take the flyers NOW! Stop those missiles!”

Already it was too late. Ravage could hear the platform's sensors tracking launches across Vos, faulting as they tried to lock on to the missiles themselves. Barely a cycle later, Tarn's counter strike was away, just as slippery, just as deadly.

The centre of Tarn became a new star, whole buildings subliming into metallic gases. The heart of Vos vanished, spires flattened, minarets melted, palaces and plazas reduced to indistinguishable dust. Megatron stood silhouetted against twin suns, silver body blazing with reflected fire, every line quivering with helpless, futile rage.

Now, Ravage thought, digging his claws deeper into Vieuxuun's worthless hide, now at last my commander, you see.

At last you see how far Cybertron has fallen.

And at last you see what you must do to save it.

 

**End of Act 3  
**

 

* * *

 

 

**Cast List – Act 2**

 

**Name** **(Nickname)** **– Function** **– Full** **designation** **[Name** **– Base** **Form** **– Template** **– Birthing** **Well]**

 

**Sentinel** **Prime** () – Prime of Cybertron

**Xaaron** () – Emirate of Nova Cronum – _Xa_ _Mech_ _Aron_ _Tava_ _Szenda_

**Graviitus** () – Emirate of Vos – _Gravi_ _Mech_ _Itus_ _Lyivas_ _Keldon_

**Haacano** () – Emirate of Tarn **–** _Haac_ _Mech_ _Ano_ _Tava_ _Szenda_

**Traachon** () – Emirate of Iacon – _Traac_ _Mech_ _Hon_ _Ias_ _Zar_

**Dionaat** () - Personal Assistant to Emirate Xaaron –  _ Dioa Mech At Cosa Hexus _

**Elita** () Temple Guard Commander

 

**Optrion** () – Defence Directorate Lieutenant Commander – _Op_ _Mech_ _Trion_ _Novus_ _Zar_

**Megatron** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander – _Mega_ _Mech_ _Tron_ _Tava_ _Szenda_

Rotec ( **Bentwing** ) – Defence Directorate Squad Leader –  _Ro_ _Mech_ _Tec_ _Novus_ _Keldon_

( **Contrail** ) – Air Guardian Commander

( **Aerodyne** ) – Air Guardian

Zerinat ( **Ironhide** ) – Defence Directorate Trooper –  _Zer_ _Mech_ _Inat_ _Cosa_ _Hexus_

Rahshiv ( **Ravage** ) – Defence Directorate Lieutenant – _Rah_ _Quad_ _Shiv_ _Temla_ _Corvis_

**Vieuxuun** () – Defence Directorate Field Commander –  _Vieuz_ _Mech Uun Novus Hexus_

**Kavylaniiss** () - Captain of Space Freighter  _Eskaan Var_ –  _Kavylan Avir Iiss_

 

**Grandus** () – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Grand_ _Mech_ _Us_ _Kolva_ _Szenda_

**Viktoleo** (Victory Leo) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Vikto_ _Mech_ _Leo_ _Lekto_ _Zar_

Torlaet ( **Deftwing** ) – Defence Directorate Supreme Commander – _Torl_ _Mech_ _Aet_ _Lyivas_ _Keldon_

 

**Taynset** () – High Lord of Vos – _Tayns_ _Mech_ _Et_ _Lyivas_ _Keldon_

**Sarristec** () – Lord of Vos – _Saris_ _Mech_ _Tec_ _Lyivas_ _Keldon_

**Geneion** () – Lord of Vos – _Genei_ _Mech_ _On_ _Lyivas_ _Keldon_

**Vvnet** () – Lord of Vos – _Vvn_ _Feme_ _Et_ _Lyivas_ _Tema_

**Omnitron** () – Lord of Vos – _Omni_ _Mech_ _Tron_ _Tava_ _Szenda_

**Myyoc** () – Lord of Vos – _Myy_ _Quad_ _Oc_ _Tava_ _Corvis_

**Zacarii** () – Palace of Law Attendant – _Zaca_ _Trac_ _Rii_ _Tava_ _Szenda_

( **Whisper** )  – Vosian Secret Service Officer –

**Gellrauon** () – Vosian Businessmech –  _ Gellr Mech Auon Ardus Keldon _

 

Viilon ( **Shockwave** ) – Governor of Tarn – _Vii_ _Cyol_ _Lon_ _Dradia_ _Szenda_

 

**Velan** () – High Circuit Master

 

**Deca** **Magnus** () – Civic Guard Supreme Commander

**Diatrion** – Civic Guard Investigator – _Dia_ _Mech_ _Trion_ _Novus_ _Zar_

Relshiv ( **Glitter** ) – Civic Guard Pathologist – _Rel_ _Quad_ _Shiv_ _Temla_ _Corvis_

Maszadep ( **Nightbeat** ) – Freelance Investigator – _Masz_ _Mech_ _Adep_ _Novus_ _Keldon_

 

**Gauun** () – Decal Designer – _Gau_ _Mech_ _Un_ _Verous_ _Klyda_

**Aratron** (Wheels) – Body-shop Worker – _Ara_ _Mech_ _Tron_ _Verous_ _Klyda_

 

Eimoril ( **Needlenose** ) – Fashion Feed personality – _Eimo_ _Mech_ _Ril_ _Novus_ _Keldon_

Jovandiim ( **Grand** **Slam** ) – Reporter – _Jovan_ _Trac_ _Iim_ _Dradia_ _Corvis_

Liimorav ( **Squawk** **t** **alk** ) – Report, Tagen News Feed – _Liim_ _Avir_ _Orav_ _Novus_ _Corvis_

 


End file.
